


A More Permanent Destination

by LilyPale (SlashGirlWeb)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:46:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlashGirlWeb/pseuds/LilyPale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>     “I am not interested in discussing it. Just take your epaulettes and begone.”<br/>     “So Martin’s busted down to first officer?”<br/>     “No, Douglas, as of this morning we are a one-pilot firm.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Third time's the charm, right? This one's the success, right? I swear this is 99% done. I'll be posting a chapter a week until I run out. Here, take my handkerchief.

The miserably rainy bank-holiday-weekend weather had blown away and the Tuesday morning was glorious, the sort of halcyon day that poets write about. Well, at least the poets he favored. It was the first fine day of the year, and Douglas Richardson was making the most of it. He put the top down on his Lexus and enjoyed the smell of spring as he drove. He took the long route to work and stopped at the bridge for a quick walk along the river. Even pulling into the airfield didn’t dampen his spirits. He whistled his way to the Portakabin and had just stepped inside when Carolyn’s office door flew open.

“Finally decided to turn up, did you? Come into my office, I want to have a word with you.”

“And a good morning to you, too,” he began, but she'd already turned on her heel and gone, leaving her office door open. Funny: no Martin, no Arthur. Well, with gale force up to ten, Martin was likely hiding on the flight deck, and Carolyn had probably sent Arthur away for coffee and pastries. Or just away.

Douglas hung up his coat and dawdled over putting his briefcase and newspaper on his desk, then surrendered to the inevitable and went into Carolyn’s office.

“Close the door behind you,” she snapped, not looking up from her laptop. “Sit,” she added as soon as the door had latched. He sat and watched her work for nearly five minutes.

She finally looked at him. “It’s your lucky day, Douglas Richardson. Here.” She flung a manila envelope over to his side of the desk. He picked it up. There were two rectangular objects inside.

“Stop playing guessing games, Douglas, there are epaulettes inside. Congratulations on your promotion, Captain Richardson.”

That was unexpected.

“What, has Martin taken one too many diversions at last?”

“I am not interested in discussing it. Just take your epaulettes and begone.”

“So Martin’s busted down to first officer?”

“No, Douglas, as of this morning we are a one-pilot firm.”

“What? You fired him?”

“Why on earth would I fire someone who works for free? He’s slunk off to God knows where. I found his letter of resignation on my desk this morning. Here it is. Read it if you wish.”

Carolyn grabbed a set of keys from the top of her inbox—they were Martin’s keys, with the ridiculous rabbit’s-foot fob that Douglas had given him for his last birthday—then picked up the top sheet of paper and slapped it down in front of him. It was handwritten on plain paper, with today’s date.

      _Dear Carolyn,_

      _I regret to inform you that I am resigning from MJN Air, effective immediately._

      _I wish you, Arthur, and Douglas all the best._

      _Sincerely,_  
 _Martin Crieff_

It was certainly Martin’s handwriting, though it was sloppy. And the paper was unfolded, so it seemed he’d written it here. Had it been a spur-of-the-moment decision? That could explain the brevity. But why would Martin leave? And why would he leave with no notice? Without telling them where he was going? Without saying goodbye? Douglas looked up in disbelief. Carolyn had already returned her attention to her laptop and was stabbing at the keyboard. 

“But why has he resigned? Has he got another job?”

Carolyn looked up at him, scowling. “Are you still here? I have to tell you, I don’t care why he left. What I care about is the fact that he left my company with no notice, and that I have flights to reschedule. And, since I will likely lose most of those bookings, I also have to find enough short hops to keep paying your salary. Not to mention finding another pilot that I can afford, so that we can, perhaps, continue in business. Now, please, go and be elsewhere while I try to keep all our jobs.”

Douglas stared at the letter, feeling the words jolt through his brain like an electric current. He folded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. He left, closing the door behind him. 

The common room felt unusually empty. He dropped into his chair and frowned. Martin must have finally gotten a job at another airline. And he didn’t know how to tell them, so he hadn’t said anything. Lord knows Martin still got embarrassed at the most ridiculous things. Though the fact that he’d managed to keep completely silent about getting another job was astounding. He was almost as transparent as Arthur. But really, not even having the decency to wish them goodbye was a bit much.

Anger was beginning to overtake his shock. Martin was always so prissy and self-righteous about doing everything properly, but then he’d left without saying a word to anyone. And he’d thought that Martin and he were friends. At least in a collegial way. Martin should have said something to him if he’d gotten a job with a real airline. It certainly left him in the lurch. And probably unemployed. It was a lousy thing to do. But confronting Martin and making him squirm would go a long way toward paying back the slap in the face of being left without a word. He grabbed his coat and marched out into the March morning, pulling his car keys from his trousers pocket.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, that’s where it is. No mistaking.” A circle was blinking over a map of Fitton on Craig’s screen. Douglas wasn’t familiar with that part of town.  
> “Good. What’s the address, then?” Douglas pulled out his mobile and opened his maps application.  
> “Douglas.” Craig sat back in his chair and blew out a breath. “I’m familiar with this address.”  
> Douglas’s stomach flipped. What did “familiar” mean?  
> 

He’d never been to Martin’s house during the day. He’d only been there once before, on a miserable Friday night last November when Martin’s van wouldn’t start—again—and he’d driven him home. He remembered laughing, despite getting soaked, as he watched Martin struggle to close the car door against the wind and freezing rain.

There was no sign of Martin’s van. Had he moved on already with the expected riches of his better job? Though he couldn't blame him; the place looked like a squat. The roof was missing tiles, half the stucco was stained and crumbling, and the two windows on the ground floor and one of the windows on the first floor were patched with gaffer tape. Two of the steps were missing bricks, and the steel front door looked like it had been attacked with a sledgehammer. He was surprised to feel relieved that Martin had left the place. It was barely adequate for penniless students; it was no place for a grown man.

He pushed aside the small feeling of happiness on Martin’s behalf and strode up the cracked walk. The bell was broken, no surprise, so he settled for pounding on the steel door. After the fourth try, a young woman with a stubbled blonde head, piercings, and an enormous wash-gray tee shirt—and nothing on underneath it—finally opened the door, shielding her eyes from the light.

“Yeah.”

“Good morning.” Judging by the stale smell of alcohol coming off her, she wasn’t having a good morning. “I’m looking for Martin Crieff. Is he in?”

“Who’s that, then?”

Not the sharpest bulb in the drawer. “Pilot chap. Short, ginger, nervous, lives in the attic.”

“Oh. Him. Haven’t seen him since last week.”

Martin had already moved out. “Perhaps someone else in the house knows if he was in this weekend?”

She blinked at him a couple of times, then said “hang on,” and thundered up the stairs. No, she definitely wasn’t wearing anything underneath, but the tattoos he could just glimpse on the insides of her thighs were even less appealing than the rest of her. A delicate representative of modern womanhood, that. At the top of the stairs, she disappeared down the first-floor hall, then he heard her hammering on one of the doors and yelling, “Nigel.” A door opened, then he heard her talking with someone. The door closed again and a young man came down the stairs. He looked like the model student they trotted out for brochures and web sites. 

“Sorry I didn’t hear you at the door—I had on noise-canceling headphones for studying.” Martin and Nigel must have got on well. “Sammy says you’re looking for Martin?”

“Yes, is he in?” Douglas put on a cheerful smile.

“No, I’m sorry, he moved out last week.”

“He's definitely moved out?”

“Yes, he packed everything he owned into his van and left last Thursday afternoon.”

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

“No, I asked him to leave a forwarding address, but he said he’d told everyone and taken care of all his mail and bills, that everything was all set. I have his mobile number if you need it.”

“No, thank you, I have it.”

* * *

Martin hadn’t answered his mobile yesterday or last night, and he wasn’t answering it this morning. His voice mail wouldn’t accept any more messages. Well, there was one way to find him. Douglas Richardson had friends everywhere, and he had them for a reason. He’d visit Craig at the Fitton police. Tell him he might have a bit of a missing person and ask him to find Martin’s mobile. He’d owe Craig a favor for it, which was unfortunate, but he was damn well going to find Martin and confront him, come hell or high water.

* * *

“Yeah, that’s where it is. No mistaking.” A circle was blinking over a map of Fitton on Craig’s monitor. Douglas wasn’t familiar with that part of town.

“Good. What’s the address, then?” Douglas pulled out his mobile and opened his maps application.

“Douglas.” Craig sat back in his chair and blew out a breath. “I’m familiar with this address.”

Douglas’s stomach flipped. What did “familiar” mean? Was it a drugs house? Martin wasn’t the type to do drugs. Too messy and dangerous for him, even if he had the money. A brothel? Ditto Martin's type and money, and he couldn't sell, no matter how much he needed the cash. His looks were an acquired taste, and he completely failed to project anything like sex appeal. He couldn’t even imagine Martin succeeding at phone sex. He had the voice for it, certainly, but not the sexual magnetism. But he was woolgathering. And whatever the location was, it gave Craig pause.

“And?” he said, carefully schooling his expression into neutrality.

“It’s a hospice.”

“A…what?”

What on earth was Martin doing there? He couldn’t be ill, that was certain. He was young and disgustingly fit, thanks to Icarus. He'd been fine when they’d flown early last week, before the holiday week that Carolyn had "generously" granted them. Well, he'd had that bronchitis over the winter, but every second person this time of year had a cold or the flu. Come to think of it, Martin had lately struck him as thinner than usual, but then Martin had always been skinny. No. Martin was fine. No, the most likely scenario was that he'd finally run out of money and signed on as some sort of caretaker. It would be just like Martin to take the first job that came along. A low-level job like that wouldn’t pay much, but it would pay steadily, and certainly it would certianly pay more than his ridiculous man-with-a-van scheme. And he’d given up his flat, so the job must include a room. He could understand Martin’s embarrassment at having to give up his captaincy to earn a decent living, his not wanting to face anyone. But that didn’t let him off the hook. He still deserved a dressing down for deserting them like that. Craig was saying something to him.

“Douglas? You all right?”

“No, fine. Just distracted for a moment. Sorry.” He smiled at Craig. “All ready. What’s the address, then?”

Douglas typed the address into his phone and saved it carefully. “Thanks, Craig. I owe you one. Try to use it quickly, all right? I hate owing favors.”

Craig shifted in his chair. “You want a cuppa before you go? Catch up a bit?”

“No, thanks. I want to find Martin before he makes off a second time. Then I’d have to ask you for a second favor.” He turned and started walking away.

Craig called after him. “Let me know if you need anything, all right?”

“Just use that favor quick as you can, all right?” He waved over his shoulder as he headed toward the door, eager to be out of there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin whirled around, his eyes wide in shock. “Douglas? What in bloody hell are you doing here?”  
> “Finding out where you’ve run off to. Oh!” Sister’s hand had tightened like a vise on his elbow.  
> “Martin, do you not want to see this man?”  
> “No, I don’t. There’s no reason for him to be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://projectbritain.com/houses/houses.htm. See second row down on the right for the jumping-off point for Mercy House. Except it's detached and it's taller, with 2 storeys & an attic room under the roof.

The house was an elderly brick detached Victorian, indifferently maintained. But it looked miles better than Martin’s old house. Martin’s van wasn’t anywhere nearby—he’d circled the block looking for it, and the place didn’t have a garage. There was a little painted sign at the front door that he could just read from the street: Mercy House. He found the name off-putting. For the third time, he matched the address on his phone to the street address. They remained identical. Well. He pulled the key out of the ignition, took a deep breath, and got out of the car.

He’d had to put his hands into his pockets against the March cold by the time a middle-aged woman with flyaway grey curls and shapeless clothing finally opened the door. “Good morning, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting in the cold, it’s just I was up on the second storey.” She gave him a bright, warm smile that reminded him of his mum. “I’m Sister Mary. Are you here to see one of our residents? Or are you interested in a tour?” She was almost Arthur’s twin for cheerfulness.

“Yes, I’m looking for a Martin Crieff. I was told he’d be here, but perhaps I’ve got the wrong address?”

“Oh, the young man who came in last Thursday. He’s just in the kitchen.” Douglas tried to speak, but the phrase “came in” was stuck at the forefront of his mind, crowding everything out. That didn't sound like Martin had taken a job. He tried to focus on "in the kitchen" instead. That was a logical place for Martin to be working. He realized he'd been standing and gaping at the woman.

Sister Mary stepped toward him, then took his elbow—she had a strong grip—and drew him inside. It felt like a furnace as soon as he was out of the cold March breeze.

“I know it’s a shock the first time you come to visit someone here. Even if you’ve seen them the day before. Kitchen’s in the back, just come right through.” She was pulling him along by his elbow. 

Sister pushed the swing door that opened into the kitchen. It was Martin, no mistaking. He was kneeling in front of the washing machine, putting clothes into it from a laundry basket. He was wearing his “casual” clothes—whatever the students left behind at the end of term. Today it was threadbare jeans and a sweatshirt that was far too large for him. His left arm was in a sling. Oh, he remembered: Martin's shoulder had been bothering him, and he must have decided he’d strained it. But he hadn’t combed his hair, which was sticking up in all directions. That was odd. Martin was always fastidious about his appearance. He’d never seen Martin leave the hotel bathroom without having combed his hair properly. 

But he’d been right, that was the important thing. Martin was doing laundry. He was working here. He hadn't been able to earn enough from Icarus now that MJN’s bookings were up. He’d taken the first job he could find and was too humiliated to give proper notice. There was nothing wrong with Martin—he was just being his naturally wrong-headed self. Douglas felt surprisingly relieved. Martin was having money problems, and he could fix that. He’d talk to Carolyn, convince her to pay Martin something now that MJN was doing better. It wouldn’t be anything like the salary a proper pilot would command, but Martin would probably be thrilled with eight or ten thousand a year. He lived so frugally that he might not even need to supplement it with earnings from Icarus. Maybe even five thousand would do, if he kept Icarus up in his spare time. Carolyn could surely spare five thousand a year.

Martin whirled around, his eyes wide in shock. “Douglas? What in bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Finding out where you’ve run off to. Oh!” Sister’s hand had tightened like a vise on his elbow.

“Martin, do you not want to see this man?”

“No, I don’t. There’s no reason for him to be here.”

She turned back to Douglas. “I’m very sorry, I’ve made a mistake. I’ll see you out.” Sister certainly knew how to take advantage of whatever nerve she was pinching. She turned him right around and started dragging him out of the kitchen. She paused at the swing door. “Martin, I apologize. We’ll discuss your guest list in just a moment.”

“I don’t need a guest list.” Martin was pale with anger and his hands were shaking. Good. Let him get himself worked up. Finding him had been enough trouble. Let him suffer a little in return.

“Martin, we’ll discuss your guest list. You have family and friends.”

“No, I don’t. There’s no one I want to see.”

Sister’s mouth pursed, and Douglas seized the opening. “I used to think that _I_ was your friend, Martin. I’ve worked next to you, day in, day out, for five years, and you left us with no notice and no explanation. MJN may finally go bust if Carolyn can’t rebook enough flights. Sister, will you please let go of my elbow?”

Sister looked at him, then back at Martin. He held his tongue. Simply letting the dominoes fall was often the key to success, something that Martin had never learned. Martin’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish’s. Yes, the shining example of his usual incompetent self.

“Martin, is this true?”

“T-ten words out of his mouth and you’re on his side. God.” Martin sat back heavily on his heels and put his face in his hands. He started to cry.

“Martin, don’t be so melodramatic. Just come back to MJN and—”

“You,” Sister turned to face him, “sit in the front room and be quiet. Don’t move until I come back. Go.” She practically shoved him out of the kitchen, and he narrowly avoided having the door swing into his bum. He took a seat on the sofa and cautiously straightened his arm. Sister looked like she’d have the truth out of Martin in a trice. For all her motherliness, she wasn’t the type to put up with his excuses. She’d tell him to pack his things and go back to MJN. Not bad for a half-day’s work. Though he might have to have physical therapy for his elbow. Good Lord, that woman was strong.

He picked up a newspaper from the coffee table and turned to the arts section. He could hear sister and Martin talking in the kitchen, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Martin’s voice rose indignantly from time to time, but sister hushed him and kept talking. He’d just finished skimming the section by the time he heard sister saying, “and you’ll do as I say?” He heard Martin mumbling, no doubt in resentful assent.

Chalk up another success for Douglas Richardson. Now he could tell Martin what an idiot he’d been for leaving with no notice, without telling them how hard up he really was. But he wasn’t angry, not really. He was just glad he’d found Martin before things got out of hand and Carolyn decided she didn’t want him back. He’d even take the boy to lunch to show no hard feelings, then they’d go see Carolyn. He’d negotiate some solution to Martin’s money problems, and everything would go on just as comfortably as before. He folded the paper and set it on the table.

Sister sailed through the swing door. It was Martin’s elbow in her pincer grasp this time.

“You two can go into the family room,” she said, gesturing at a side door. “Will you please open the door for us?”

“Certainly, sister.” He stepped to the door and opened it, then waited for sister and Martin to go through. Martin didn’t look at him as sister dragged him through the door.

The room was jammed with well-worn, mismatched armchairs. Sister steered Martin to one, nearly shoving him down into it. Then she turned to Douglas and gestured impatiently. “Sit down. I’ll bring some tea in a minute.”

Martin glared at him as sister left. “Congratulations, Douglas, you’ve found me,” he spat as soon as the door closed behind her. He was pale and trembling. “You win again. What do you want for your prize?”

Douglas sat in the least dilapidated-looking chair and decided on a tone of wounded pride. It wasn’t much of a stretch. “Don’t take that high tone with me, Martin Crieff. You left us with barely a word. We deserve better than a single sentence scrawled on a piece of paper after all the years you’ve spent at MJN. And where’s your van? I didn’t see it anywhere nearby.”

Martin stared at him, his jaw working. “ _You_ deserve better,” he said.

“Yes, we damn well do. You and sister spent enough time talking. I assume she told you to shove off back to your old job? I’m not leaving until you tell her you’re coming back with me to MJN.” Martin looked bitter. No doubt the result of having just lost in his run-in with sister. And of being about to lose this argument, too. Well, Martin could pout all he wanted to. It didn’t matter. He'd be happy enough once he was back up in an aeroplane instead of doing laundry and odd jobs around a hospice. Flying was the only thing that Martin cared about, and Douglas Richardson could provide it.

Martin sagged in the chair. “You bastard.” Douglas frowned. Martin had never sworn at him in the five years they’d worked together, no matter how close to the bone he'd cut. Hearing Martin curse him was shocking. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, “and I’m not going to discuss it with you.”

There was a knock at the door and sister surged in with a tea tray without waiting for an answer. She pushed an ottoman between them with her foot and set the tray on it. It was just two mugs of hot water, spoons and napkins, and five individual sachets of different herbal teas. Douglas had hoped for some biscuits—hell, he’d hoped for actual tea, with milk and sugar—but no luck.

“You have your choice of herbal teas,” she said. “We don’t have caffeinated beverages, I’m afraid. They conflict with too many residents’ dietary prohibitions.”

Martin’s sudden deflation had put Douglas on the back foot. But the Richardson charm always smoothed things over. “Thank you, sister, it’s very kind of you.” It was just a tiny thing, but he felt a little more natural now. Sister stared sternly at Martin before leaving.

“Martin, let’s sort out the tea before we pick up our argument again. Which one do you want? There’s mint, chamomile, green—”

“I don’t want any tea, Douglas.” Martin’s lisp and slight accent, both of which he’d managed to erase in his five years at MJN, was back. “Have whichever you want.”

“Well, I don’t want herbal tea. Nasty, tasteless stuff.”

“Give me one of the mugs, then. My hands are freezing.”

“How can you be cold? It’s at least thirty-five degrees in here. And you’re wearing a heavy sweatshirt.” He half-stood and handed the mug over. Martin managed to wrap both hands around it, though it was a near thing with his left arm in the sling. “Whatever possessed you to resign and come over here? Why didn’t you tell Carolyn you couldn’t manage any more without a salary? But never mind it now, I can negotiate something. We’ll go see Carolyn this afternoon—just let me do all the talking. How much do you really need a year? And where's your van?”

“Douglas, don’t you ever shut up? I am not going back to MJN. Just be pleased that you’ve found me out and leave it at that. Go and gloat somewhere else.”

“I am not gloating. And you most certainly are going back to MJN. What in hell do you think you’re playing at?”

“God, can’t you put two and two together? Do you think I’d resign from a captaincy, from _flying,_ ” Martin’s voice was shaking, “if I didn’t have to? Do you think I’d creep away from MJN without giving Carolyn adequate notice if I’d gotten a better job? Do you think I’d be in sitting here, in a bloody hospice”—hearing the word from Martin’s lips made a chill run up his spine—“if I didn’t have to? What in God’s name do you want from me? An apology for not telling you? You’re not going to get it. Just get out. I don’t want to talk to you.”

Martin’s hands were shaking and he was trying to set the mug down on the tray. Douglas didn’t remember moving, but he was kneeling next to Martin, taking the mug and putting it on the tray, his hand on Martin’s shoulder. Martin started crying as soon as he touched him.

“Martin, get a hold of yourself. I’ll fix it. You’ll have that ridiculous captain’s hat back on by the end of the afternoon.”

Martin was pushing him away with his good arm. “Stop it. Just get out of here. I don't want to talk to you.”

Douglas pulled back, but he kept his hand on Martin’s shoulder. Keep him grounded, get him settled. “Martin, it’s all right, I’ll fix it. Stop panicking. You know how you get, you’ll make yourself ill.”

“I’m not panicking. And I’m already ill.”

His hand on Martin’s shoulder felt alien, like it wasn’t part of him. He mustn’t have heard correctly. “I don’t understand. Don’t be ridiculous.”

It took Martin a moment to compose himself. His voice was dull when he spoke. “What do you think I’m doing here? I had to resign. I’m not fit to fly. Not even as a passenger.”

This was all wrong. Time was dilating, the way it did when you saw an accident happening. He knew he’d remember every detail of this moment for the rest of his life. The musty smell of the closed-up sitting room. The cigarette burn next to Martin’s sock in the ugly gray-blue rug. The emptiness of Martin’s voice. The way the shaft of sun lit coming in through the window his hair and eyes with pale flame.

“You know—” Martin’s voice broke and he shook his head. “You know I’ve had that bronchitis all winter? And that rotten pain in my shoulder the last while? It was so bad last week I could barely finish an Icarus job. I went to see the doctor, thought I’d get some muscle relaxants and, you know, something for my cough. They took an x-ray to see what was going on with my shoulder. But the doctor said the results looked wrong and they wanted to do them again.” Douglas’s whole body felt heavy and immobile.

“So they told me they needed to keep me overnight and they'd do the x-rays in the morning. I didn't know why they wouldn't do them that night, but I was almost glad they were keeping me because I knew I'd get something like a real dinner and breakfast instead of jacket potato and toast. They did the x-rays in the morning, but they sent me back to the room instead of discharging me. A doctor came to see me—it wasn't the doctor I'd seen doing the rounds earlier, it was a different one. He said the x-rays showed a mass in my lung and he was ordering more tests. And they gave me blood tests and a lung biopsy and had a team of in specialists to look at me. God, I’ve never had so much attention. And I, um, I have cancer. It started in my left lung and now it’s all through me. My lymph nodes, my liver, my bones. Turns out the pain in my shoulder was a tumor growing through my ribs and pressing on my shoulder blade. They gave me radiation therapy for that, to shrink it. But there’s nothing they can do. They’ve given me two, three months. At most. Not even six. They say six months is usual for terminal cases.”

“Good Lord.”

“I’m here because I belong here, Douglas. I was bloody lucky to get a room. Though I’m in the attic again. Of course.”

“Oh, Martin.”

“So if you’ll just go away, I’ll be really grateful. Just leave me alone, all right?”

“Martin.”

“What!”

He didn’t know what to say. Martin was furious, waiting for him to say something. But he couldn’t think of anything worth saying.

Douglas’s phone rang in his pocket. Martin jumped like he’d been slapped. It was Carolyn’s ring tone, a klaxon. Terrible timing. “Excuse me while I take this.”

“I’ll do more than excuse you,” Martin started to stand. Douglas was on his feet in an instant—creaking knees notwithstanding—and clamped his hand onto Martin’s shoulder.

“Stay. Please. Please don’t walk out.” Martin’s face crumpled and he sank back into the chair. Well, that was some sort of success. Sighing, he thumbed the Accept button and smiled so that he’d sound his usual self—well, so that he’d sound less frightened.

“Hello, Carolyn.”

“Douglas, where are you?” Her mood hadn’t improved since yesterday.

“Just doing some errands. Do you want me to pick something up for you?”

“No, I want you over here immediately. Our client phoned and he’ll be arriving by 4 o’clock. He wants to be in Barcelona by 7 PM. I’ve been working like a slave for the last two days to save our jobs, with no help from you, I might add, and I have things to discuss with you before we take off.”

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

“You’ll be here in 15 minutes.”

“If I could get to the airfield in 15 minutes, I might consider getting to the airfield in 15 minutes. But I can’t get there in less than an hour. That will have to do.” The airfield was only 20 minutes away, but he needed some time to regain his equilibrium.

“Half an hour or you’re fired.” She rang off and he pocketed the phone. Martin looked very small and very frightened. He was picking at one of the loose threads in the torn knee of his jeans. Douglas knelt down again.

“Are your hands still cold?” He took Martin’s hand. “They’re like ice.” He started chafing Martin’s hand between his own, the way he’d warmed Emily’s hands a few weeks ago after they’d played in the snow.

“Stop it.” Martin yanked his hand away.

“How long have you known?”

“Since Wednesday.”

Seven days already. He couldn't imagine being in Martin's position, being alone with the knowledge that he was dying. That everything was over, except for pain and illness. How could Martin stand it?

"Martin, I'm so sorry."

"Don't patronize me!"

"I'm not patronizing you. I _am_ sorry. This is awful." Martin was silent, head down, picking at the hole in his jeans again. "What can I do to help?"

"I don't need help. I don't need anything. They give me everything I need here. A room, food, drugs. Little jobs to do so I don't dwell."

"God."

Silence stretched between them.

"You'd better shove off to the airfield."

"It can wait. The client's not leaving until four. Carolyn just wants me there early so she has someone to shout at." 

Martin almost laughed at that. Almost. "What gale force was it?"

"A steady twelve."

"Yeah, best to avoid that."

"Listen, why don't I help you with that laundry for a bit?"

Martin looked up at him, his eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"Just to be friendly."

"Don't be ridiculous. Why do you want to help me with the laundry? What's in it for you?"

"A convenient way of avoiding going over to the airfield to be shouted at."

* * *

He made Martin empty the washer so he could check that he hadn’t mixed too many darks and lights together. Telling Martin what to put in and what to leave out—telling Martin what to do—was familiar and relaxing.

Douglas washed the last of the breakfast dishes—Martin couldn’t manage it easily with his arm in a sling—and he got Martin to talk a little. Martin had packed and moved in here last Thursday morning. Then he'd sold his van to his mechanic for the cost of repairs. He shared a little about his diagnosis. Just listening made Douglas's stomach turn. He wiped the counters as they ran out of things to say.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going before Carolyn actually fires me.”

Martin snorted. “Not bloody likely. She can’t fly without you.”

He folded the tea towel and set it on the counter. Martin opened the kitchen door and they walked silently through the front room. At the front door, Martin reached across and put his hand on the knob.

“I’d like to thank you for coming, but I know you only hunted me down so you could shout at me for buggering off. It was good to see you, though. Goodbye, Douglas.” Martin opened the door.

“It was good to see you, too. I’m glad we talked. Well, let’s not let all the heat out, all right? Take care, Martin. Bye, now.” He walked down the steps. He heard Martin close the door as his foot hit the walkway. He turned to wave. Martin was looking out the glass panel set into the wooden door. No, he wasn’t looking. He was staring at nothing, his face blank. He waved and Martin looked startled, then gave a wan smile and waved back with his good arm.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin didn’t deserve this. Not that anyone deserved to become ill. But Martin had worked harder than anyone he’d ever known, and he'd always gotten the worst of everything. Flying was the only thing he cared about, and he’d sacrificed everything for it. He’d lived in that terrible flat—no, it was only a room, for God's sake—for nearly as long as Douglas had been sober, his van was broken down half the time, and he never had fifty pence to spare, but he’d been able to fly. If it had been anyone other than Martin, he would have called that single focus “drive” and “passion.” And now all that was left of Martin's future was illness and death.

Douglas was glad the flight Barcelona only required one pilot. He wanted some time alone. He couldn’t imagine trying to keep up a conversation with—let alone find the patience to be civil to—Herc, Carolyn’s emergency fill-in of choice. But Martin’s absence pressed on him. _He should be in that seat, close enough that I could touch him. We should be playing alphabet flights; he’d be losing and frustrated, as always. He should be fretting over the controls and staring wide-eyed at the sky._

He had to struggle to play the innocent during Arthur’s sad, rambling monologue about Skip quitting so suddenly. He barely managed to avoid shouting at Carolyn when she flung herself petulantly into Martin’s seat. It was all he could do not to round on her when she began to impugn him for leaving her without notice.

And he’d been looking forward to taking Martin around Barcelona. Martin had never been. His favorites in Barcelona were, perhaps predictably, the Gaudi buildings, especially Sagrada Família. It was always nicer playing tourist when you had someone with you. And Martin appreciated engineering and architecture, even if the suspension bridge in Bristol was the height of his taste.

When they landed, he realized he didn't remember much about the flight, apart from takeoff and landing. And then Carolyn insisted on taking them to dinner. As it turned out, with the goal of picking his brain about pilots who were looking for work, and who could be had cheapest. “You must know some pilots who’re down on their luck, just like you.” He should feel insulted, but he couldn’t be bothered. Arthur was too gloomy to order dessert.

He made a beeline for his room the instant dinner was over. But he didn’t know what to do once he got there. He got into his pyjamas and made a cup of tea out of the electric kettle. He felt at loose ends. He decided to phone Martin, tell him they’d landed safely and find out how he was doing. As he grabbed his mobile, he realized he hadn’t told Martin to expect a call, and he might already be asleep. What with the late Spanish dinner, it was nearly ten-thirty.

He sighed and turned the mobile over in his hands. He'd do some research. Find out what Martin’s options were. Martin still sometimes got flustered at the tiniest problems; it would natural for him to panic while talking with the doctor and misunderstand something, or miss some treatment option. Or even misunderstand what the diagnosis meant. Martin had been clear enough about the type of cancer, though, as they’d played at being cheerful over the laundry and dishes, and he’d been careful to memorize it. He typed “non small cell adenocarcinoma lung” into his phone’s web browser.

He read through the background information as quickly as he could, looking for treatment options. It was the most common type of lung cancer in people under forty. It was down to genetics in non-smokers. It was often asymptomatic until stage three or four—Martin had said he was at stage four—so it was usually undetected until it was too late for a cure. A cure was possible only at the very earliest stages of the disease, and treatment was surgical, not chemo or radiation. So Martin had been paying attention to the doctor, and he’d gotten it right. That was good, for what it was worth. For patients in advanced stages—that was Martin—palliative chemotherapy and radiologic treatments were preferred for reducing symptoms like cough and shortness of breath, and they might even prolong life. _Palliative. Might._ Good God. Patients received morphine and other opioids to alleviate acute and chronic pain.

He didn’t know why he clicked on the pictures. The tumors in the autopsy photos looked like nothing so much as heavy balls of fat nesting in the lung tissue. They reminded him of the suet his dad used to put in the sage-and-lemon turkey stuffing every Christmas when he’d been a boy. The liver tumors looked like sections of dense cauliflower heads. He thought of the tumors growing in Martin’s lungs, then reaching out to invade his liver and lymph nodes and bones, and he felt his gorge rise.

He shut the mobile off. He wanted to wash his hands, wash the knowledge and images away. Nonsense. That was a ridiculous reaction. No, he couldn’t stand it. He got up and washed his hands and face in the hotel’s excuse for hot water, then tried to settle himself in the bed.

Thinking back, Martin had been looking unwell all winter. If he’d thought about it at the time, he’d put it down to Martin’s grueling schedule. When he wasn’t flying, Martin seemed to spend all his waking hours moving other people’s belongings. That, or worrying about money.

Why was he thinking about it? Martin wasn’t even a friend. Though he was something more than an acquaintance. A colleague, certainly. But a friend? He wasn’t sure that’s what they were, despite what he’d said for Sister's benefit. They enjoyed each other’s company well enough. They’d spent enough time working together over the past five years. And they’d fallen into the habit of doing things together when they were on layovers. Thanks to Carolyn’s scrimping, they’d even slept in the same bed any number of times. But friends? Not sure. It wasn’t as if he owed Martin anything. And Martin didn’t expect anything of him. Martin wanted him gone.

But learning that he was so ill had been shocking. And it was just like Martin. Going away without a word, leaving the least possible trace. When he wasn’t trying to puff himself up because he was an airline captain, Martin never put himself forward. He knew that Martin had given up trying to get Carolyn to pay him. And obviously nothing had come of his application for that Swiss Airways position, just as he’d expected. Martin had been tight-lipped enough about the interview. He’d probably panicked and simply talked himself right out of the job. Lord knows that Martin was the perfect storm of tongue-tied and babbling in any stressful situation.

Why was he thinking about it? There was nothing he could do about the fact that Martin was ill or about how Martin was handling it. Martin was a grown man and had the right to run his life the way he wanted. If he didn’t want to tell people that he was ill—that he was dying—that was his prerogative. If he wanted to hide in a hole like a sick dog, then Douglas Richardson had no right to interfere. Even though Martin was making a mistake by isolating himself. Just another in Martin’s life full of mistakes.

Martin didn’t deserve this. Not that anyone deserved to become ill. But Martin had worked harder than anyone he’d ever known, and he'd always gotten the worst of everything. Flying was the only thing he cared about, and he’d sacrificed everything for it. He’d lived in that terrible flat—no, it was only a room, for God's sake—for nearly as long as Douglas had been sober, his van was broken down half the time, and he never had fifty pence to spare, but he’d been able to fly. If it had been anyone other than Martin, he would have called that single focus “drive” and “passion.” And now all that was left of Martin's future was illness and death.

He felt unaccountably angry. _Stop thinking about it. There’s nothing you can do. And it’s nothing to do with you._ He turned out the light and flung himself into the bed. He fussed with the covers and willed himself to fall asleep.

* * *

He visited Sagrada Família in the morning. He did his usual circuit, then stopped to examine progress on the current work, the vestries of the Mother of God and the four Evangelists. He should be enjoying the building more, but he couldn’t get Martin out of his mind. He trailed into the gift shop to buy Emily’s postcard. He sent her one from every trip. Not that she read them. She probably threw them away without reading them. Silly old man. Three wives who’d left him and a daughter who probably wanted nothing to do with him. Why keep trying? _Maudlin. Stop it._

He sat in a pew to write the card. “Dearest Emily, We flew into Barcelona last night and we're heading out again this afternoon. This is Sagrada Família—it’s my favourite building in Europe. I hope we can come here together some day. All my love always, Dad.” He shuffled through his wallet for a Spanish stamp and stuck it on, then put the postcard in his jacket pocket. He’d surely pass a post box before he left.

Plenty of time before he had to get to the airfield, but not enough time to go to any of the other sights he liked. Too early for lunch. He decided to send Martin a postcard. Might as well try to lift his spirits. He selected a card with a photo looking across the modern capitals of the church’s columns. “Martin, Greetings from Sagrada Família. I come whenever I’m in Barcelona. Douglas.” Good. Brief, not sentimental. Just a sop to his conscience for not being able to do anything for him. He put a stamp on it and put it in his pocket with Emily’s card.

He felt a little better now that he’d written to Martin. Martin was all alone, like he was. _Good Lord, stop being so maudlin._  He dropped fifty Euro in the donation box on the way out. He didn’t mind spending a little money on something he loved, after all. It was worth knowing he was helping fund the new construction he’d enjoy the next time he came.

* * *

The flight back was as unmemorable as the flight out. Perfect weather the whole way, and they didn’t even have to hold before landing. He brought the paperwork to his desk—someone had to do the blasted stuff, and it was all down to him now—but he felt unsettled and impatient. The sun would be down in an hour, and he didn’t want to lose the last of the day after starting out in the warmth of southern Spain. He headed to his car.

Damn. He’d forgotten to mail the postcards. Well, that was easily fixed. While the Lexus warmed up, he put a UK stamp on Emily’s card and added a line about not being able to find a post box in Barcelona. Better than admitting he’d forgotten. He paused over Martin’s card. What the hell, he might as well drive to the other side of town and deliver it in person. He’d stop for a walk in the park on the way. The snowdrops, crocuses, and daffodils should just be peeking out through the last of the winter muck. Seeing the early flowers, with their promise of longer days, was always exhilarating.

He rambled through the park until twilight, stopping here and there to brush the snow from the early shoots. Feeling refreshed, he headed for Martin’s. They’d parted stiffly yesterday, and he didn’t feel quite right about it. He’d give him the postcard and they’d talk about spring in Barcelona, the architecture, the food. He’d have done whatever his duty of friendship was, and more.

He parked and went up to the front door. A tall, thin woman with a mop of dark curls, sharp cheekbones, and a hatchet nose half-opened the door. She was much younger than Sister Mary. A comb and some red lipstick—and clothes that actually fit—and she’d be striking. Her “may I help you” had a strong French accent. He wondered if she was a nun, as well.

“Bon soir, madame. My name is Douglas Richardson. I’m here to see Martin Crieff.”

“Are you the one who visited him yesterday?”

He hesitated. Had Martin done up his visitor list and said he wasn’t allowed? If so, he’d just have to charm his way in. What the hell, he enjoyed a challenge. “Yes.”

She stared at him for a moment, frowning. “Bon. Come in.” She held the door wide for him. “He’s in his room. Up on the third storey.”

Martin had told him that he was in the attic again. That meant climbing stairs every day. He hoped they’d let him move when a lower room became available. Though the availability of a room in a hospice was not to be desired.

He was a little winded when he got up to the third floor. Too much sitting all winter. He’d have to start walking again now that the weather was improving. And the stairs were definitely going to be hard on Martin, especially as his illness progressed. He knocked. He heard a soft mumble, as if he’d woken Martin up. But it was barely six-thirty, much too early to be asleep. Though there was no light coming from under his door. After a moment, he heard the rustle of bedclothes.

“Come in, Sister.”

Invitation enough. He opened the door. Pitch black inside and Martin was, indeed, in bed.

“Douglas?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Are you playing mole-man?” Martin was blinking at him against the light coming in from the hall. He flipped on the light switch and waited until Martin finished shielding his eyes and yelping. The room was just like his dormitory room at university—thirty years ago and more. Single bed crammed into the front corner, a cheap wardrobe just beyond the swing of the door, and a little sink in the far corner, though there was a low bureau instead of a desk at the foot of the bed. Not enough room for a chair. Martin hadn’t even finished moving in. There were sloppy piles of clothing and a tattered cardboard box taped shut on top of the bureau. As well as a dinner tray, untouched. Martin must have been sleeping when Sister brought it in.

Martin had sat up and was gingerly settling his left arm across his stomach. Douglas perched on the foot of Martin’s bed. Good Lord. Martin didn’t look well. He was pale as a sheet and there were deep shadows under his eyes. And he was wheezing, having trouble breathing. He’d seemed fine yesterday.

“What are you doing here, Douglas?”

Good question, that. He pulled the postcard out of his pocket. It didn’t seem like much of an answer. “I wrote you a postcard in Barcelona, but I forgot to mail it. I decided to bring it over.”

“Why’d you write me a postcard? And why didn’t you just put a new stamp on it and mail it once you were here?”

“I thought I’d see how you were settling in. See if you needed anything.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need anything.” Douglas resisted the impulse to argue. There was so much Martin needed, but he'd never get any of it. Martin reached out and took the card. He frowned at the picture of the column capitals.

“It’s the Sagrada Família basilica in Barcelona,” he explained. “Antonio Gaudi took the project over in the nineteen-twenties and designed it in the Art Nouveau style, on top of a typical Gothic design.”

“These look like stars. Or eyes. And the other ones look like gears. Doesn’t look very Art Nouveau to me. Doesn’t look like it belongs in a church.”

Martin understood the design of bridges better than the architecture of emotion. Ah, well. “Maybe you have to be there, get the whole sweep of it, to see it. You look like you’ve had a hard day.”

Martin put the postcard in his lap and looked at him. “How was the flight? How was the weather?” He obviously wasn’t in the mood to discuss his health.

“The weather was fine and the flight was fine.”

“Both ways?”

“Yes, both ways.”

“Did anything break on Gerti?”

“No. She was perfectly behaved.”

“Did you do the paperwork?” Martin narrowed his eyes at him. “Did you at least do your log book?”

“Of course I didn’t do the paperwork. I'm not a chump.”

“Thank you very much.”

“What I mean is that it was the first lovely afternoon of the year, and I didn’t want to spend it cooped up in the portakabin when I could go out and enjoy the day. And come to visit you. Did you know your dinner’s on the bureau?”

“Yes, of course I knew that.”

“No need to be snippy. Do you want me to get it for you?”

Martin shook his head. “No, I don’t want it.”

“You’ve got to be joking. You’re always hungry.” He stood and picked up the warming cover on the dinner plate. “It’s a perfectly nice, home-cooked dinner. Not as good as mine would be, of course. But look, you’ve got a piece of chicken, some overcooked green beans, and a roll and butter. And a glass of milk and custard for pudding.” He picked up the tray and went over to put it on Martin’s lap.

“Douglas, I don’t want it. Just put it back.”

His stomach was knotting. Ridiculous. There was no reason to be anxious about Martin Crieff’s appetite. It was none of his concern. He was just here to be friendly, divert Martin with small talk for a bit. “Aren’t you hungry? Did you have a big lunch? Or a late tea?”

“No.” Martin was looking at his lap and fidgeting with the postcard; he took a slow, careful breath before continuing. “They haven’t got the pain medication sorted out yet. It makes me feel sick, kills my appetite. _And_ the pain’s still bad. I can’t stand the thought of eating.”

“Oh.” Douglas set the tray back carefully. “You should eat _something_ , you know. You want to keep your strength up. Do you want to have a bite of the roll? Or a few spoons of the custard?”

Martin snorted. “Keep my strength up. That’s a laugh.”

Douglas sat on the bed and rested his hand on Martin’s leg. “It’s important to take good care of yourself and stay positive.”

Martin was staring at him like his hair was on fire. “Stay positive? Take care of myself? What are you talking about? There’s no reason to take care of myself.”

“You want to live as long—as _well_ as possible, don’t you?”

Martin looked him in the eye. “No. If I can’t fly any more, there’s no point. I don’t want to hang around waiting to die. I just want it over with.”

Fear squeezed his heart. But he understood. Just wanting it done when there was nothing left. But Martin was young, almost young enough to be his son. Someone his age shouldn’t have to face that. Though he'd been only a couple of years away from rock bottom when he was Martin’s age, stupidly trying to fill the emptiness with drink. But he’d had Emily. For her, he’d managed to get sober, had learned to live with the hollowness. But Martin had lost his reason to keep struggling forward.

“It’s not like you to give up. I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are.”

Martin’s jaw set. Douglas tried not to ignore his sick stomach as Martin took another deliberate, wheezy breath. “Where I _am_ is in a hospice.”

Best to ignore that. “I had a taste of what you go through the day you went on that interview for Swiss Airways.” Martin flinched when he mentioned Swiss Airways. Good Lord, that interview must have been terrible if the mention of it could still make him jump like that. “The whole flight down to Antibes, Herc was lording it over me with his captaincy, trying to put me down.”

“Herc irritated you for a couple of hours, so you think you can pity me? I don’t think so.”

“No, listen to me, Martin.” He squeezed Martin’s calf gently. Martin’s mouth screwed up like he’d tasted something bitter. 

“I’d managed to forget until that day. What it’s like to be at the bottom, with no hope of getting up. To be stepped on so casually by someone who has control of the one thing you care about.” He swallowed. He’d never talked about this with anyone outside of AA. Why he'd decided to tell Martin was beyond him. He hadn't even consciously decided to talk about it, but here he was. “I spent two years without seeing Emily because of my drinking. Her mother decided to divorce me—she was right to do it—a month after Emily was born, and she held Emily out as a bargaining chip. Said she’d agree to visitation if I sobered up. I was furious. I started drinking more because I wasn’t going to let her tell me what to do. That’s just after I was bounced out of Air England, too.” Martin was staring at him, focused. At least he was listening.

“It took a year and four hospitalizations for alcohol poisoning before I realized that I was going to kill myself if I kept on. I’d lost my career, my second wife, and my daughter. I’d lost control of my drinking. It was very nearly more important to me than staying alive. The social services worker who saw me at my fourth hospitalization got me into an AA program. I honestly didn’t know if I could get sober. It took three months before I could manage a week without a drink, but on that day I knew I’d turned the corner. At ten months, the family judge allowed me monthly supervised visits with Emily. I was so relieved that I started weeping right there in the courtroom.

“Martin, I know our positions are different, but I know what it’s like to want to give up. You’ve never given up, and I don’t think you should start now.”

“God. Douglas, I never knew—“

“Of course you didn’t. No reason for you to know. But I didn’t tell you just to hear myself talk. Ah—” He held up a hand as Martin opened his mouth. “Martin. Listen. You don’t have to go through this alone. If you’ll let me, I’d like to sponsor you— _help_ you, see you through this. It’s your decision, of course. But I hope you’ll say yes.”

“Oh, God.” He gave Martin’s calf another squeeze as Martin’s face crumpled. Martin drew his knees up and curled in on himself. He started  to cry, his shoulders tight and jerking. Douglas reached out to touch Martin’s face. He’d sobbed like that himself when he’d hit bottom. He well remembered feeling like he’d become the sum of all the pain he’d ever endured, then being overwhelmed at the feeling of hope. 

Martin suddenly flung himself back against his pillows. A few moments of crying had run him out of breath and he sounded like he couldn't breathe, like he was having a dangerous asthma attack.

“Martin, just try to relax. It’s going to be all right.”

Martin shook his head violently and grabbed a handful from the pile of unboxed tissues on the nightstand; he pressed them against his mouth, coughing into them; it was a heavy, barking cough that turned his stomach. Douglas thought of the round, pale tumors he’d seen in the photos, big as tennis balls, growing fat in the lung tissue. He wanted to vomit. This was a mistake. Telling Martin he’d be there for him, help him. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. It was more than he could stand. He forced himself to keep his hand on Martin’s leg. He hoped Martin wouldn’t notice how rigid his touch was.

The coughing fit finally eased and Martin sagged back against his pillows, out of breath and gasping. The wad of tissue in Martin’s hand was swimming with bright red blood. He hadn’t thought that Martin could have gotten any paler, but his face was gray. He was gripping Martin's leg much more tightly than he meant to.

“Good Lord, Martin.”

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Good Lord.” There was a plastic wastebasket under the sink. He got it and Martin dropped the tissue into it. It landed with a sickening wet sound. He put it down next to the bed, then ran some water into the glass from the dinner tray and wet the flannel that hung at the side of the sink. He brought them over to the bed. Martin’s color had improved marginally, reverting from grey to white.

“Budge over.” Martin made an ineffectual attempt at moving. He sat, gently pushing Martin’s hip back to make a bit of room. “Rinse and spit.” Martin obediently swished mouthfuls of water and spat them into the wastebasket. When he bathed Martin’s face with the flannel, Martin groaned softly and his eyes drifted closed. He freshened the flannel and bathed Martin’s neck and shoulders. He rinsed the cloth out again and wiped Martin’s bloody hand, then dabbed at the blood on the sheet and blanket where his hand had fallen. Martin’s breathing had eased, though he was still wheezing. He rinsed the flannel and hung it over the side of the sink to dry, then sat next to Martin again.

“This is quite a change from yesterday.”

Martin’s eyes fluttered open. “Yesterday was the first day I’d been able to breathe properly in a week.” His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat. “Today I’m back to the new normal. Sorry about all the blood. The nurse practitioner said they must have nicked a blood vessel when they were doing the biopsy. I’ve been coughing up blood nonstop since then.”

“Then they can damn well go back in and cauterize it. Tell the nurse you want them to do it right away.”

Martin waved his hand dismissively, then let it drop back into his lap. “I was coughing blood long before that. There’s just more of it now. It's too much bother.”

“Were you clear about how much blood you’re losing?”

“It just looks like a lot. Blood’s always alarming. It’s fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.sagradafamilia.cat/index.php


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin came down with the last armful, his dress shoes and something on hangers in dry-cleaning plastic—ah, his uniform, shirt, and tie. The hat must be in there somewhere. Martin set his shoes on the bed, then opened the wardrobe and smoothed the plastic garment bag.
> 
> “Feeling sentimental?”
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “Your uniform. You kept it. Had it cleaned, too.”
> 
> “Christ. It’s the only suit I have.” He jammed the hangers onto the rod and slammed the wardrobe door. “I know I should have given it back to Carolyn, but I need something for the funeral—I just know my mum will want to have a funeral. I don’t have the money to buy anything else, and I wasn’t going to make my mum have to buy something.”

The beach and sun in the south of France were lovely—they were always lovely. Their loveliness was only surpassed by the well-built young man in the tiny swimsuit with whom he was sharing a drink. Raoul, was that his name? How clichéd. But it didn’t matter if he remembered the man’s name. He was only in it for the night. His cock, hard in his swim trunks, twitched and began to ooze as he watched Raoul circle the rim of his glass with his clever tongue. An air raid siren shrieked.

Damn. No beach, no Raoul. Just his own rumpled bed, an early morning wet dream, and his mobile shrilling at him. He grabbed it and pressed Accept before he’d thought to check who it was, or what time it was. At least it wasn’t Carolyn’s ring tone. “Hello.”

“Douglas, it’s me. Martin.” Good Lord, was Martin all right? He hadn’t seen him in most of a week. He’d spent the last six days stuck in Dar es Salaam, waiting for the truck that was waiting for its axle to be replaced so it could bring the cargo up. He flung the covers off and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry I’m calling so early on a Sunday. Were you asleep?” Martin sounded much better than he had in the long week of nightly phone calls. Thank the Lord for small favors.

“No, not at all. I was just reading the newspaper over coffee.” The bedside clock read eight. Yesterday’s clothes were folded on the bedroom chair. He could be dressed and in the car in ten minutes.

“C-can you come and get me? I won’t get in the way of whatever you were going to do today. You can drop me at a coffee shop. I just want to be out of the house. I wouldn’t bother you, except you said you wouldn’t mind helping me, and it’s too far for me to walk anywhere from here.”

“Of course I can come get you. What's the problem?”

“No, everything’s fine. I just want to be out of the house for a while.”

Martin no doubt thought he was being evasive. “I’ll be there in half an hour, all right?”

“That’s fine. Thank you. You don’t need to rush. Just sometime. Um, before nine, if you can.”

* * *

At eight thirty-five he was looking for a parking space anywhere near Mercy House. Cars were parked for blocks around. Sunday morning was a strange time for a party, though. At eight forty he decided to give up the search; the closest spot he could find was unacceptably far for Martin to walk. He’d double-park in front and hurry Martin into the car.

Good Lord. A hearse—flower arrangements were jammed in around the coffin inside—had double-parked in front of the house while he’d been circling for a space. He double-parked at the corner, hit his flashers and stepped out into the early April drizzle. Martin was waiting on the pavement, hunched against the cold in a thin jacket, his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets. Martin looked like a panhandler compared to the funeral director and his employees standing in their black bespoke suits under their Fox umbrellas. He was glad to see Martin's arm was out of the sling. But why he’d choose to stand out in the cold was beyond him. As were most things Martin decided to do.

“Martin! This way!” Martin started walking to meet him.

Martin’s hair was a riot of bed-head curls. He must have given up entirely on combing it. It made him look younger. But he was noticeably thinner. And he looked exhausted. And wheezing, he realized once he caught Martin up. He resisted the urge to throw an arm around his shoulders to warm him. Or to take his own coat off and insist that Martin wear it. Martin wouldn’t stand for either. “What’s going on? Why is there a hearse? What are all these cars doing here? And why are you waiting on the kerb when it’s freezing out?”

“It’s Mrs Gilchrist. She died three days ago.” Martin was getting out of breath from trying to keep up with his pace. He slowed down and wrapped his arm around Martin’s shoulders. Martin shrugged him off. “What are you doing? Stop it. They’re having the mass here this morning instead of in church. I just wanted to get away.”

“Yes, I would, too. Here we are.”

“You double-parked? At a funeral?”

“Obviously. There’s no parking for a good tenth of a mile.” He switched on the seat heaters and turned the fan up as high as it would go. The sooner Martin got warm, the better. “Your arm’s out of the sling.”

“I guess the tumor shrank. Or the painkillers are finally working properly. Either way, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much.”

“Do you want to go anywhere in particular?”

“No, look, I don’t need you to entertain me. I brought some cash, so you can drop me at a coffee shop. It’s just I’ll need you to bring me back sometime today. I don’t have enough for a cab, or I would have called one.”

“Tell you what, let’s go back to my place. I don’t have any plans for the day. I’ll cook breakfast and we can go to Croydon Visitor Center. They’re still open the first Sunday of the month, aren’t they?” _And I can feed you. And give you a decent coat and a couple of soft shirts and decent jumpers. Which you will accept._

“Douglas, I don’t want to interfere. I just want to be somewhere else for a few hours.”

“You can stop that right now. As I said, I don’t have any plans. It’ll be a nice change of pace having company on a lazy Sunday.”

* * *

He bundled Martin inside the front door as quickly as possible and led him into the kitchen. Cooking would warm the place up. “I’ll make us some coffee, then start the breakfast.”

“Can I have tea? And I’m not hungry.”

“Of course you can have tea. And I’m not letting you out of here without feeding you. You can at least have some toast and eggs. As a favor to me. Payment for rescuing you from Mrs Gilchrist’s mass.”

Martin stirred half the sugar bowl into his tea. That’s something he likes, at least, Douglas thought; sweets. Though Martin pushed his eggs—scrambled beautifully, if he said so himself—around, eventually managing two forkfuls. He made more headway with a piece of dry toast.

“So, do you want to go to Croydon today? It’s the first Sunday of the month, after all.”

“Douglas, you don’t need to spend your day with me. I just wanted to be out of there for a couple of hours.”

“I’m always impatient to be out of the house this time of year. I wouldn’t mind going, if you want to.” Martin chewed his lip, clearly interested. He just needed a bit of a push. “Do you take any medications at mid-day? I can run back and get them for you while you take a nap or watch some telly. No need for both of us to go back to the house. And why don’t you finish that piece of toast. For me.”

Martin put down the toast, his face twisting. “Douglas, that's really not helpful.”

“All right, all right. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“And you don’t have to tour me around the countryside.”

“I know. But I’m offering you a trip to Croydon. Of my own free will and everything. There’s a little café that I like halfway there; you can pay me back by letting me stop and get a lovely croque monsieur when we’re done our tour. I promise it’s not a ruse to feed you.”

A small smile quirked the corner of Martin’s mouth. He felt disproportionately relieved to see Martin smile.

* * *

Douglas put Martin into his warmest jumper and one of his coats before they left the house. He'd put some shirts and another jumper into a plastic storage bag and brought it out to the car. When he dropped Martin off at Mercy House later today—without coming back to his place to retrieve Martin’s threadbare jacket—he’d tell Martin he’d been going to give the clothes to charity but would he like to have them instead. It would be easy to fluster Martin enough that he’d keep them.

Martin fell asleep during the drive to Croydon. He still looked tired when they arrived. He remembered reading read that fatigue was common in final-stage lung cancer. He was glad Croydon wasn’t large; it wouldn’t tire Martin too much. For himself, he could take some small enjoyment in the Art Deco architecture. At least there was no danger that he’d fall asleep out of boredom, as they had to shuffle around among all the damned exhibits. Unless Martin insisted on seeing one of the several history-of-aviation films they offered; then all bets were off.

“Oh, Douglas, look—the show on the airfield’s history starts in five minutes. I love that one. We can just make it.”

* * *

He wished he could have dozed off during the film. Martin did, slumping against him with his head on his shoulder. He shifted so that he could get his arm around Martin, make sure he wouldn’t tip over if he fell into a deep sleep. The section on World War II, no doubt highlighting the Battle of Britain, and no doubt the longest and most sententious part of the film, was just coming up.

They were in the middle of a row, so he decided to wait until the theater had all but emptied before waking Martin. Some of the audience members smiled at him as he waited for them to file out. One smartly-dressed older woman, walking arm-in-arm with another smartly-dressed older woman, smiled and nodded at him. Good Lord. She must think Martin and he were a couple. It had been a long time since he’d been part of a couple. Impulsively, he put his arm around Martin and held him close for a moment. It felt surprisingly good. _No. That way lies madness._

“Martin, wake up. You dozed off.”

“Mm?” Martin, head lolled on his shoulder, blinked up at him. He’d never noticed Martin’s little bald spot before, but it was obvious this close. No wonder he'd always combed his hair so carefully. And was so fond of that ridiculous captain’s hat. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Right before the Battle of Britain.”

“Oh, damn. That’s my favorite part.”

“They’ll run it again at the top of the hour. Let’s get a tea from the cafeteria to keep you awake and look at the exhibits for a while, then we can see it again.”

* * *

Martin made it most of the way through the Battle of Britain before falling asleep this time. Good enough. He couldn’t stand the blasted thing a third time, no matter how much Martin wanted to see it. But Martin certainly enjoyed the Visitor Centre. He spent an inordinate amount of time at each exhibit, reading the descriptions and furtively touching the displays.

“I’ve always enjoyed Croydon. It’s strange knowing this is the last time I’ll come here.”

“Don’t be silly. We can come again next month if you like.” Martin stared at him. “I’m just saying I don’t mind bringing you.”

* * *

Martin fell asleep the moment they were in the car. Douglas took the long way back on the old road, driving slowly. It was too early for scenic views, though. Just dark, leafless trees and beaten-down winter fields. The weather dragged his mood down. When he stopped for the croque monsieur, the cafe seemed dingy and run down instead of old-fashioned and homely.

It was almost four when he pulled up at Mercy House. The hearse and cars were long gone. Knowing they’d been there made the place look as dismal as the winter landscape had been.

“Martin, wake up. We’re back.”

Martin invited him in, pro forma. He was glad to accept. He’d felt uncomfortable at the thought of just dropping Martin at the kerb, leaving him to go back to his his tiny room under the eaves while he went back to his warm condo. Not that the condo had much to recommend it. It had been years since he’d been a bachelor, and it was the sparsest he’d lived in a long while.

Climbing the stairs was a slow business. Martin had a coughing fit on the first floor landing—very little blood this time, thank the Lord—and they sat on the step for a few minutes while he caught his breath.

“My coat’s at your place. You forgot to go back so I could get it.”

“No worries. I’ll bring it over tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to keep coming over. I’m fine. I can do without it.”

“Nonsense. I just forgot to put it in the car. Then I forgot to go back for it. That’s all.”

Martin’s room was in much the same state as last week, though different piles of half-folded clothes ringed the box on the bureau. And there was an empty cardboard box on the bed.

“You can sit on the bed if you like.” Martin had just laid the coat and jumper next to the empty box when another coughing fit doubled him over. He managed to get himself sat on the edge of the bed. Douglas sat next to him and made himself lay a hand on his back for comfort. Martin was shaking and sweating by the time the fit ended.

“Sorry. It gets worse the later it gets.”

“Don’t apologize. Just don’t.” His sponsor had put up with worse from him over a decade ago. Coming over in the middle of the night to pull him from a pool of his own vomit and excrement on the bathroom floor. Cleaning him up and getting him into clean clothes, cleaning the bathroom and sitting through the night with him. He shouldn’t be squeamish. Martin stood and started throwing the clothes from the top of the bureau into the cardboard box. “Are you doing laundry?”

“Moving into Mrs Gilchrist’s room. She’s—was—the next floor down, so I’ll have one less flight of stairs.”

“Ah. I can lift and carry, if you like.”

“There’s not much to carry. It should only take me a few trips.”

“It can take you _no_ trips.”

“Look, Douglas, you don’t have to baby me. I’m still capable of taking care of myself.”

“I’m not babying you. I’m offering to help. You agreed that I could help you. There’s no reason for you to insist on carrying things when it’s an effort.”

Martin dropped his handful of clothes into the box and stood, shoulders sagging and head bowed. “I’m sorry. I know you said you’d help me. I’m not used to it.”

Douglas sighed. “It’s all right. Look. While I’m here, just let me give you a hand, will you?”

Martin had depressingly little. He took the mysterious sealed box down first. After Martin had admonished him to be careful with it, and not to look into it. He took the rest down in the other box. They didn't have to bring the bedding. One trip for clothes—all on the top of the bureau for some reason—plus his toiletries case. Two trips for Martin’s books from the bottom bureau drawers—flight texts and years-old hardcover mysteries and spy novels that libraries had gotten rid of. He’d folded Martin’s clothes into the drawers and was arranging the books on top of the bureau when Martin came down with the last armful, his dress shoes and something on hangers in dry-cleaning plastic—ah, his uniform, shirt, and tie. The hat must be in there somewhere. Martin set his shoes on the bed, then opened the wardrobe and smoothed the plastic garment bag.

“Feeling sentimental?”

“What?”

“Your uniform. You kept it. Had it cleaned, too.”

“Christ. It’s the only suit I have.” He jammed the hangers onto the rod and slammed the wardrobe door. “I know I should have given it back to Carolyn, but I need something for the funeral—I just know my mum will want to have a funeral. I don’t have the money to buy anything else, and I wasn’t going to make my mum have to buy something.”

He was continually on the back foot with Martin lately. “Of course not. How’s your mum doing?”

“She’s fine.”

“Has she been able to come to see you yet?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Martin, I’m not prying. I’m just making conversation.”

“God. I’m sorry. Of course. I know that. I’m sorry. Look, Douglas, I’m just not at my best today. Well, I’ve never been at my best, have I?” Martin dropped onto the bed. It squeaked loudly. “Oh, bloody Christ, that’s just perfect! Every time I roll over, the bed is going to shriek at me.” Martin put his face in his hands and groaned. Douglas sat next to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “It’s not fair. Why do I get the shit end of everything? I can’t stand it any more.” Martin’s shoulders started hitching. “I can’t stop crying, either. Jesus.”

“It’s all right. It’s all right.” He wanted to be able to tell Martin how to fix it. That’s what he did. He was clever and he fixed things. Not his own life, certainly. And not Martin’s life, either. The worst of it was that Martin was right. He got the shit end of everything and there was nothing to be done about it. “I’m here for you. Cold comfort, I know.” Martin was tense, his shoulders tight. He seemed to be trying not to cry. He buried his face in Douglas’s neck and wrapped his arms around his waist, digging his fingers into him so hard that he’d have bruises. And no pleasure to show for them.

Martin slowly relaxed, and the claws in the small of his back loosened. “Martin, we forgot your computer. That’s what you play your flight game on, isn’t it? I’ll go up and get it. Where is it, tucked in the wardrobe?”

“I got rid of it.”

“What? Why did you do that? You said you spend hours every day on it.”

“Not worth keeping, is it? Someone’d only have to get rid of it after I’m dead. I don’t want things hanging around for people to deal with. The novels can stay with Mercy House, but I’m going to put the flight texts in the recycling on trash day. I should have done it last week. Hell, I should have thrown them out before I moved in. I’m sorry you had to carry them.”

“Jesus, Martin.”

Martin scrubbed his face and sighed. “I’m just trying to be sensible. It’s taken me long enough to realize I need to act like an adult. Besides, the flight program would just remind me that I can’t fly any more.”

“Jesus.”

“Excuse me.” They both looked up. Tall, dark-haired sister was coming through the door with a glass of water in one hand and a little paper cup—full of pills by the sound of it—in the other. “It’s time for your medicine.” She held the glass and cup out to Martin. “And you'll please not take the Lord’s name in vain while you’re visiting here, thank you,” she said, staring pointedly at him.

“Martin just did. You should tell him, too.”

“How nice to know Martin’s friend is a schoolyard tattle-tale.” _Harridan._ “Finish your water, Martin.”

“You can leave it. I promise I’ll finish it.”

“You’ll finish it now. You know very well the medicines won’t metabolize properly if you don’t drink it.” It took Martin a couple of minutes to get the water down. Good Lord. Was he really so nauseated that he couldn’t stand water? Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Martin eat or drink much of anything all day. He’d pushed his eggs around and eaten a couple of mouthfuls of toast this morning. He’d sipped at a cup of sugared tea—to go with the mid-day handful of pills he’d unwrapped from a twist of aluminum foil—while they were waiting for the movie to start at Croydon. And Martin had accepted the bottle of water and French-bread roll—the plainest thing at the restaurant where he'd gotten his croque monsieur—that he’d pressed into his hands for the drive back from Croydon. But he didn’t recall seeing Martin take so much as a mouthful of the roll or crack open the water bottle.

“Good job, Martin. I’ll bring your dinner up in half an hour.” She turned to Douglas. “And because you are truly repentant for blaspheming, you will stay and make sure that Martin finishes his dinner. Non,” she said as Martin started to protest, “it’s small and it’s bland. You are going to eat it.”

Martin leaned forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, and grunted as Sister stalked out the door.

“Some of those were painkillers, I hope.”

“All.”

“It was rather a lot.”

“They help. They turn my stomach, though. I feel like I’ve just eaten two Christmas dinners.”

“Tell you what. Why don’t I make the bed while you get into your jim-jams?”

* * *

Martin took his dinner in bed. It was a small dish of macaroni with butter, applesauce, and tea with heaps of sugar. It took Martin about a half hour to get through two-thirds of the pasta. Sitting at the foot of the bed and watching him eat was like watching paint dry.

“Ironic, isn’t it,” Martin said as he speared yet another single rotini and put it in his mouth. “This used to be all I could afford to eat. Now I could have real food. If I could stand it.”

“Come on. It can’t be that bad. I think you’re just letting your nerves get to you.”

“Letting my nerves get to me? I suppose everything’s all in my head, too.”

“I didn’t say that. You know how flustered you get, though.”

“You’d be flustered, too, if you were dying. Jesus, Douglas. I can’t believe you.”

“Don’t get angry. I didn’t mean anything by it. But surely tucking away a little pasta and applesauce isn’t that hard.”

Martin sat up, nearly upsetting his dinner tray. “No, I suppose it’s not hard to eat whatever you want when you don’t have a tumor the size of an orange pressing on your heart and your stomach. And taking up one lung and compressing your other lung. Not to mention colonizing your liver and your colon and your blood and your bones. Sometimes I can’t believe what an arse you are.”

“Jesus. Martin. I had no idea.”

Martin collapsed back into his pillows and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I didn’t mean to say all that. And I didn’t mean to call you an arse.”

“I know. You meant to say, ‘thank you for rescuing me from Mrs What's-her-name's funeral today.’ It's all right.”

* * *

Martin finished most of the pasta, then managed some of the applesauce. All the energy seemed to have run out of him with his outburst. He didn't notice Douglas putting the shirt and jumper in with his clothes. Martin would snipe at him about it later, but he’d say that he'd just absentmindedly put them in while he'd been putting all the other clothes away.

After all, what was a little lie between friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what funerals are like in the UK--this is what they're like in the US, though.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for The Hiatus. How do write? Help? Really, help?

Martin closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. Douglas knew that the small gesture of frustration would use up most of Martin’s energy. He sighed and went over to the sink to wring a flannel out in tepid water. He sat on the edge of the bed and bathed Martin’s face, brushing the sweaty curls off his forehead. He’d brush Martin’s teeth in a little while: his breath stank.

“What’s today’s date?” Martin demanded suddenly. 

“It’s May eleventh. Why?”

He unbuttoned Martin’s pyjama top and bathed his neck, chest, and stomach. He’d all but forced Martin to start wearing pyjamas about a week ago, when they’d replaced his regular bed with a hospital bed. Martin had become too weak to get in and out of the regular bed by himself. The hospital bed could be raised and lowered—not that Martin got in and out of the thing—and it had hangers and whatnot for the morphine and antibiotic drips. Martin couldn't breathe well enough to lie down anymore; the hospital bed let him sleep sitting up. It was the same idea with the pyjamas. Pyjama jackets could be easily buttoned and unbuttoned, and the bottoms were relatively easy to manage as well. Much easier for them both than mucking about with those tee shirts and sweat pants that Martin favored.

“I want to live to the first of June.”

“Good to know.” He didn’t think Martin could last that long. If the disease didn’t carry him away, the pain and the fever would; they couldn't get either under control. “What’s so special about June first? It’s not your birthday. Or your anniversary at MJN.” He finished rebuttoning Martin’s jacket and pulled the covers up to his chest. He rinsed the flannel and came back to bathe Martin’s face and neck again, then his hands. The cloth wasn’t soothing Martin. Not that anything was. Martin was sweating and shivering again by the time he hung the flannel up and sat himself down on the bed.

Martin opened his eyes and spent a moment focusing on him, his head wobbling with the effort. “It’s the day I would have started at Swiss Airways.”

“You’re fever’s up. You’re hallucinating.” He leaned forward and put his hand on Martin’s forehead.

Martin jerked his head away. “I am _not_ hallucinating. They offered me the job. On the spot. Oskar Bieder offered it to me. Himself.”

“Martin, you can’t really expect me to believe that.”

Martin’s jaw set and his chin jerked high; Douglas narrowly avoided rolling his eyes at him. “Look in the top right bureau drawer. The letter’s in there. Read it.”

“Martin, I really don’t want to go rooting around in your underthings—”

“Read it. I want you to read it. Out loud.”

“Fine. I’ll go look.” He’d seen some letters in the drawer, but he hadn’t looked at them; they weren’t any of his business. And if there was a letter from Swiss Airways in there, it was certainly a rejection letter. Martin had been tense after the interview, and had absolutely refused to discuss it. But Martin was in a mulish mood, and he wouldn't be satisfied until Douglas had read the letter. Well, he'd think of something to say while he was reading it.

He went to the bureau and took out the small sheaf of envelopes tucked between the tee shirts and the side of the drawer. He took the two steps back over to the bed—amazing how little room you really needed to live—and settled next to Martin on the hospital bed. “All right, here we go. Letter to your mum. Letter to your sister. Letter to your brother.” His heart contracted. Martin must have written his goodbyes in these. He took a deep breath and willed his hands to stop shaking. _Keep going, Richardson. If Martin can stand it, so can you._ “Letter to Carolyn. Letter from Swiss Airways.”

“Open it.”

“Hold your horses, I’m doing it.”

“Read it to me.”

“Hang on, I’m doing it.” He put on his reading glasses and unfolded the letter. “ _Dear Martin_ —very informal, for the Swiss. _It was an unexpected pleasure meeting you today_ —” Jesus. He scanned the rest of the letter.

“Read it to me.” Martin was becoming agitated. His breath was coming short and he was already wheezing. He’d start coughing in another moment, and it was taking him much longer to get his breath back after the coughing fits. Douglas glanced at the oxygen concentrator—up to maximum; they needed to get him a better one—then budged closer and took Martin’s hand to calm him. He flourished the paper and started again.

_Dear Martin. It was an unexpected pleasure meeting you today. I’d like to apologize again for 'luring' you here, but I’m sure you understand how surprised we were at your test results. And I suppose that you can’t be unhappy with the outcome. I write to confirm that we’re expecting you to join our incoming class on June 1. I’m looking forward to seeing you again then. Your friend, Oskar Bieder._

Jesus. The letter looked genuine enough. Though he didn't know why he'd think that Martin would forge something like that.

“How in hell did you manage to make friends with Oskar Bieder?”

Martin’s eyes were shining. Was it pride or the fever? “They, they thought I cheated,” Martin said breathlessly. “That’s why they waned to interview me.” Martin shifted and closed his eyes for a moment. He wished Martin could be free of the pain. “My simulator results were ‘adequate.’ But I got a hundred percent on my written test. They thought it was ninety-nine percent. Misread my answer.” Martin closed his eyes and shifted again, then looked at Douglas and started grinning like an idiot. “Apart from me, Martin Crieff is very nearly the best pilot at MJN.”

That was what he’d written in Martin’s recommendation. Martin couldn’t have known what he’d written unless Swiss Airways had shared it with him. Good Lord. “Oskar Bieder? Interviewed you?”

“He thought I’d cheated,” Martin repeated. “When they realized I hadn't cheated, I convinced him to stay and interview me. I impressed him. With my knowledge. My confidence.” Martin seemed lucid enough. Was _he_ hallucinating? He looked at the letter again. Martin tugged his hand free and snatched the letter away. Martin’s hand had been hot and clammy; his own hand started to cool immediately with Martin’s gone. Martin stroked the letter once. “‘Your friend.’ I wish I could have flown one of those jetliners, though. That's why I want to live to June first. That's all I'll get.”

Was this Martin Crieff? Was this what he really was beneath the panic and compulsive rules-following? Knowledgeable and . . . confident? What he himself had always played at being? He played it well, but it was just a play.

Martin had folded the letter and was handing it back. He put it back in the envelope, then put the envelopes back in their place in the drawer. He settled on the bed again. Martin was lying back with his eyes closed, smiling slightly. He looked exhausted, though. He suddenly felt as exhausted as Martin looked. He scrubbed his hands over his face.

“Martin, I need to go home and clean up. Why don’t you try to sleep for a bit?”

Martin’s head snapped to him, his eyes wide. “Will you be back later?”

“Yes. As soon as I can.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was anxious about leaving Martin for so long. The boy was determined to last until June, but he was hanging on by a thread. He needed the time away from Martin, though. He was exhausted. He’d all but moved into Mercy House to care for Martin. Martin was only awake for ten or twelve hours a day, but he helped with meals and cleaning while Martin was asleep. He sometimes played the out-of-tune piano and sang for the residents who were well enough to come down to the common room. In other words, his exhaustion was all desperate worry for Martin Crieff. Martin Crieff, of all people.

He dawdled in the shadow of the aeroplane on the walk around. It was lovely being all by himself. Nobody needed anything from him. Just for a moment. He leaned forward until his forehead touched Gerti’s cool skin. Ah, that felt better. Probably shouldn’t be flying. No, he _knew_ he shouldn’t be flying. But he had to go to damned Pantelleria for two nights. He could have flown down and then flown back to collect the passengers, but Carolyn had wanted to take a couple of days’ holiday. Plus, she’d said she was sick of his skiving off and she’d fire him right then and there if he didn’t go, even though Herc was available. He needed the job—such as it was—even if he needed to fly somewhere right now like he needed a hole in the head.

He turned his cheek to Gerti’s skin. Damned newlyweds. Couldn’t be satisfied with taking a train somewhere. No, they had to take a four-hour flight to a speck of an island in the middle of the Mediterranean, and they had to book with MJN. It’s not as if their relationship would last, anyway. Relationships don’t last.

He was anxious about leaving Martin for so long. The boy was determined to last until June, but he was hanging on by a thread. He needed the time away from Martin, though. He was exhausted. He’d all but moved into Mercy House to care for Martin. Martin was only awake for ten or twelve hours a day, but he helped with meals and cleaning while Martin was asleep. He sometimes played the out-of-tune piano and sang for the residents who were well enough to come down to the common room. In other words, his exhaustion was all desperate worry for Martin Crieff. Martin Crieff, of all people. He turned his other cheek to Gerti’s cool.

“Douglas!” He hadn’t heard Carolyn’s heels on the tarmac. Had he actually dozed off standing up? He had just enough time to straighten up and pretend to be examining the wing before she hove into view around the tail. “Haven’t you finished the walk-around yet? Is anything wrong?”

“No, I was just checking the flap. It looks loose.”

“Nonsense, it looks perfectly fine. I just had David go over everything not two days ago. Have you filed the flight plan?”

“Yes, I’ve done it.”

“Good. I want to take off in ten minutes. The lovebirds are driving me crazy, calling each other ‘pookie’ and ‘lovey’ in the departure lounge. I want them on and _off_ my aeroplane as quickly as possible. And my reservation for the hot spring is at 3 p.m. I don’t want to be a moment late.”

Reservation for the hot spring, indeed. He had a reservation with a lousy hotel bed. 

* * *

He got himself settled in the flight deck as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to play jolly today and greet the lovebirds personally. The standard announcement would do just fine. They were airborne in fifteen minutes.

He did not want to be flying an aeroplane. God help him, he wanted to be with Martin Crieff. He counted off the minutes and the miles as he beelined for the island. Carolyn was still taking perverse delight in ignoring the flight-deck service bell, and he had to wait until they were nearly in the middle of France before she deigned to bring his coffee.

She threw herself into Martin’s seat. Seeing her in it still set his teeth on edge. He was wearing the captain’s epaulettes now—he didn’t like thinking of them as Martin’s epaulettes—and he had every right to be in the captain’s chair himself. But he didn’t want it.

“Do you have a game going?”

“What kind of game do you imagine I can play by myself while flying an aeroplane?” That came out poorly.

“I have no idea. But I’m sure you have something for every occasion.”

“Well, I’m fresh out of ideas.” God, the awful aeroplane coffee tasted delicious today. Showed how tired he was—his taste buds were misfiring. Carolyn showed no interest in leaving. She was swiping the dust from between the rows of instruments on the control panel, crossing and re-crossing her legs, looking out the side window at the fields flowing by far below them.

“What do you suppose that ungrateful Martin Crieff is doing now? Oh!”

He'd spilled the coffee all over his shirt and jacket and trousers.

“Damn. Could I have another coffee, please? And a towel?”

“Douglas, did you burn yourself?”

“No, the coffee’s never that hot. And a bottle of water.” Might as well try to blot some as much as he could before it dried and stained. At least now he wouldn’t have to greet the passengers after the flight. He handed her the half-empty, dripping mug, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.

She took the mug and watched him for a moment before silently leaving the flight deck.


	8. Chapter 8

He woke up well after noon the next day. It had been a deep, dreamless sleep, and he felt more rested than he had in weeks. He showered for as long as the hot water lasted, then pulled on a pair of summer trousers and a new polo shirt. He brought along a jumper; you never knew when the wind was going to turn sharp when you were stuck on a rock in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

He strolled down into the town and settled himself at a little café where he could sit in the sun, have an espresso, and look at the boats and the tourists. Pantelleria was a favorite holiday spot for the rich and famous. Ordinarily he'd have been charming the widowed café owner into telling him which celebrities were here this week so that he could decide whether he wanted to bump into Ralph Lauren or Madonna or Daniel Craig. But he wasn't interested in any of that right now.

He pulled out his mobile and hit Martin’s speed dial. It had almost gone over to voice mail when it picked up. “’Lo?”

“Martin, I was afraid you were asleep. How are you?”

“Okay. How’s Gerti? How’s—wherever you are.” Martin was speaking slowly, but he didn’t sound breathless. He must be having a good day. Which he was missing, stuck on this miserable rock. Where was the Richardson luck when he needed it?

“Pantelleria is… Mediterranean. North African. Arid. The usual thing. Gerti made the trip without breaking. I’m doing well, too, thank you for asking.”

“You’re always well.” Martin must be having a very good day. That was more than he’d managed to say in the past week.

“You sound better now that you’re rid of me.”

Martin gave a congested laugh. He could hear the congestion, even over the mobile. More bloody phlegm was accumulating in Martin’s lungs every day. The hourly exercises the respiratory therapist had given them were barely keeping up, and he didn’t think there was anything non-invasive they could do next. Martin had been refusing any invasive treatments, even getting that damn blood vessel cauterized. It terrified him.

“Martin, when was the last time Sister helped you with your breathing and coughing exercises? She _knows_ she can’t just skip a session. Are you going to get her in there to help you, or do I have to call her?”

“Douglas—”

“Because if I need to call her, I bloody well will.”

“Douglas—”

“I don’t care how many other residents they have, they can’t neglect you just because someone else is whinging at them—”

“Douglas, shut up.”

That was unexpected. “I’m sorry?”

Martin blurted out, “you can’t just tell me what to do,” and he heard Martin’s breath hitch. He heard scrambling on Martin’s end and the muffled sound of Martin coughing. Martin must be holding the mobile in the duvet, trying to hide the sound from him. He waited, listening to Martin cough, listening to him gasp, listening to him choke, thinking of him slowly drowning in the fluid filling what little lung tissue he still possessed, watching the second hand sweep round his watch. A minute passed, then a minute and a half. Martin finally came back on the line, breathless and faint, after nearly two minutes.

“Douglas, listen—”

“Martin, you can barely breathe. I’m calling Sister right now. I’m going to have her call an ambulance for you.” The call dropped. Damn. He pressed the Back button again and again, trying to get to the Redial option. A text came in. It was Martin.

“Dont call sister. And dpnt come back.”

He felt like he’d been tased. He stared at the text. He couldn't move, couldn't think. Another message scrolled up under it.

“Sister has ur things ready to pick up.”

He felt ill. No that was an understatement. He felt like he might collapse. He managed to type, “Martin, I don’t understand.”

“U keep telling me what t do

“What t wear when to eat when to get new prescipts & eqpmt

“My life my decisions

“Not urs

"Dont come back”

He stared at the mobile. Martin didn't want to see him again. Martin was so angry at him that he couldn't text properly. He wanted to message back, but his hands were shaking too much. Besides, what could he say—"I'm sorry I've been trying to keep you alive as long as possible, but I've come to care deeply for you—we've known each other for five years, and losing you is killing me"? No, there was nothing he could say that would improve the situation. No more texts came in. He finally turned the mobile off and put it in his pocket.

He was freezing. The breeze coming off the Mediterranean had become a wind. He stood up, feeling shaky. He turned his face into the wind and started walking.


	9. Chapter 9

Walking on Pantelleria was not good for thinking. He’d nearly been run down twice by motorbikes and rental Fiats speeding along the narrow, twisting roads. He decided to give it up at the Lake of Venus. The mirror-smooth blue water, protected from the endless wind by the lush vineyard hills, was achingly beautiful. He sat on one of the boulders to watch the family of holidaymakers laugh as they smeared the mineral-rich mud on themselves and each other. He walked over to the narrow beach and squelched through the wet volcanic sand. So much for that pair of shoes.

He made himself as comfortable as one could be whilst perching on a volcanic boulder, facing into a northwest wind, and considering the wreck of one’s life.

Half an hour ago he’d been a reasonably happy man. A man with a job, and a daughter, and one dear friend.

MJN would certainly go under within the next six months—hell, it’d go under within a month or two, as soon as Carolyn could wind it up. Carolyn’d never find another pilot who’d work for a salary she could afford to pay. No, she’d go to Switzerland with Herc. Lord knows what she’d do with MJN’s debt. But that wasn’t his problem—and he had enough problems. He was on the wrong side of fifty—hell, he was on the wrong side of fifty-five. There was no point in looking for another job as a pilot. None of his old “friends” wanted anything to do with him since he’d been bounced out of Air England over ten years ago. They wouldn’t give him the time of day, never mind a recommendation or even a job lead. If he wanted another job flying, he’d have to emigrate someplace where he could stretch his savings by giving flying lessons or doing some miserable packet route. If he weren’t an alcoholic, he could get a job singing and playing at a bar, maybe romance some divorcees who had a little cash to spend. But that temptation would become overwhelming as time wore on.

And half an hour ago he’d been confident enough to count Emily a happiness. But that had really been just hope and bluster. Laura had the power to withhold her from him, either through her own natural bitchiness or through family court. Emily'd be a teenager soon; her own interests and friends would take center stage, and she’d lose whatever interest she still had in spending time with him.

And he’d lost Martin Crieff. It was bad enough that Martin Crieff had been the best thing in his life. But to have Martin _spurn_ him—Christ, that hurt. And Martin Crieff _had_ been the best thing in his life. He’d spent five years working with Martin. They weren’t a couple, but they enjoyed being with each other. They’d fit together, somehow, despite how different they were. He’d spent more time flying with Martin than he’d spent with his last two wives combined. They never tired of each other’s company. They’d talked and sang and played word games; they’d spent their days and nights together on layovers. They’d argued, then worked it out and gone on as before. Martin was the steadiest—the best—relationship he’d ever had.

And Martin Crieff would rather die alone than spend another moment with him. Christ.

Well. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. He pulled out his mobile and made a phone call, then he sent a text. He pushed himself off the boulder and started making his way back toward the town. 


	10. Chapter 10

One of those broken-down rental Pandas was slowing as it came up behind him. If the driver thought it was too narrow to pass, he couldn’t be Italian. He stepped off the road to wave it by, but it pulled up and stopped, the sun glinting off its windscreen.

“Douglas! I’ve never seen you out for a walk in the fresh air.”

Good Lord. It was a small island, but why did Carolyn have to turn up just now? He didn’t want to talk to her. Or anyone.

He crossed the road and bent to look into the car. Carolyn's hair was wet and tousled, and she was wearing a black beach pullover. She had on a pair of immense sunglasses. She looked like she’d stepped out of some Italian movie from the sixties: the older woman, still vigorous and brimful of life.

“Oh, hello. Coming back from the beach?”

“I’ve been to all the beachy sites at the far end of the island. But what are you doing out here in the fresh air and sunshine? You’re a creature of the town.”

“The town’s too small. Not much in the way of people watching. Thought I’d stretch my legs, stroll out to the lake.”

“Not enough celebrities to keep your interest? Hop in, I’ll give you a lift back.” She grabbed her sandals and towel from the front seat and dropped them into the back. “Just ignore the sand,” she said, swiping at the car seat.

“No thanks, I think I’ll walk back. Salt air, clean living.”

“Nonsense, get in. We’ll go to lunch, my treat.” She reached across and opened the passenger door.

He sighed to himself and got in. He tried to pay attention as she prattled on about the elephant rock and the cave and the cigarette boat full of handsome young men that had idled by while she’d been swimming.

“We’ll go to the Yacht Marina Hotel. They don’t mind if you’ve just come from the beach.”

“Sounds fine, especially since you’re paying.”

He had sea urchin—the island specialty—and a citrus-dressed salad. The sea urchin was delicious and fresh and tasted of the sea. The salad was garden-warm, tender lettuce and bitter greens, dressed scrumptiously with lemon and a light honey. He felt removed, as though he were watching himself from twenty feet away. Carolyn had sardines and eel soup, Lord knows why.

As soon as they’d gotten their espressi, Carolyn leaned over, looking serious. His stomach sank.

“Douglas, listen. MJN can’t go on. I’m going to have Gerti broken up and sold.”

“We all knew MJN couldn’t continue.” _And we all knew that it’s been riding on Martin’s back for years._ “That’s the right decision. I'm glad you're not selling her outright, so Gordon can't buy her again. Even I don’t like the thought of him having her.”

“Of course not! But I’ve run the numbers and it’s a good deal. I should be able to get rid of most of MJN’s debt once everything’s done. Frankly, it’s the almost-new quarter-of-a-million-pound engine that makes it work.”

He sipped at his espresso. “That was a good day. A free engine and a humiliated Gordon Shappey.”

“Think how much _I_ enjoyed it! Of course, we almost died the day before.”

“Nonsense! Martin landed us beautifully. Admit it, you thought I’d taken the landing, didn’t you?”

Her face shut down. “I do _not_ want to talk about Martin Crieff. Though I’d love to know where that boy’s slunk off to. Herc can’t seem to find out, and he’s been asking everywhere.”

He grunted noncommittally and quickly raised his espresso cup to his lips.

“You haven’t heard anything about him, have you?” she continued. “I’m sure you’ve been sniffing everywhere, looking for whatever it is you’ll be doing next.”

“No. Haven’t heard a word about him.”

“I have half a mind to phone his mother. I’m sure _she’d_ tell me where he is. Especially after I tell her what he did to MJN.”

“No need to be vicious. Just let him alone.”

“What, have you taken his side?”

“No. But it’s over and done with, isn’t it. Just sell Gerti and move on. What are you going to do?”

“I think,” she twirled the espresso cup by its handle, “that I shall go to Switzerland after all.”

“Going to be with Herc?”

“Well, I’ll have a bit of a sabbatical. Relax and decide what I want to do. I’ve never stayed in Switzerland for more than a few days. I can walk Snoopadoop to my heart’s content. I might do some light mountain hiking. Oh, you needn’t laugh.”

The image of Carolyn in hiking boots was too much. He laughed until he nearly cried. God, it felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.

“Stop it or I’ll make you pay for lunch.”

“You’ve got to admit it’s funny. It sounds like Herc’s taken up mountaineering.”

“Well, it’s the thing in Switzerland.”

“And you’re such a slave to conformity.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“What’s Arthur going to do?”

“Herc has been helping him apply to Swiss Airways, putting in a good word for him.”

“Swiss Airways? Doing what?”

“As a flight attendant.”

“What?”

“Herc told me that he’d all but offered Arthur a job that first day we met. His cheerful disposition, getting everyone’s mind off the fact that we were grounded for so long in Birmingham. Can you believe it?” The wine she’d had with lunch had relaxed her. Or maybe it was loosing Gerti from her neck, and knowing that Arthur had something to look forward to. It took five, no, ten years off her.

“And what is Douglas Richardson going to do, now that he’s being released from the salt mines of MJN?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Been having a bit of time off. Haven’t really thought about it. But something will turn up. Richardson luck, you know.”

“You don’t look like you’ve been having ‘time off.’ You look positively knackered. And you’ve dropped a stone or more. Don’t tell me you’re doing one of those bootcamp things, trying to get fit.”

“Bootcamp? Getting fit? What parallel universe do you live in nowadays? ”

“Seriously, Douglas. What are you going to do?”

“Look—is that Giorgio Armani having a stroll? He has a dammuso here.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He brought the paperwork to his desk and considered working on it. What the hell, might as well. MJN would have to tie up all its paperwork as well as its finances. Besides, there was nothing better for him to do. It would keep him occupied for a while.
> 
> Four hours later, it was all over. He’d done every scrap of paperwork he could lay his hands on. He’d even gone back three months and double-checked Martin’s paperwork on a whim—though, of course, it was perfect. Everything was complete and correct. Even his log book was up to date—not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be flying again. Another chapter in his life closed. God knows what dreariness the next one would bring. 
> 
> He put his logbook and personal things into his briefcase. He locked up, then pushed his keys to the portakabin and the aeroplane through the letter slot in the side of the hut.
> 
> Well. That was that.

He had to admit, it was very convenient of Giorgio Armani to walk by just then. And Carolyn was exceedingly pleased with her haphazard vacation snap-cum-celebrity-photobomb. It certainly got Carolyn off the subject of what he was going to do, post-MJN. Unfortunately, that’s about all the Richardson luck extended to these days.

He slouched around the port for the rest of the afternoon and evening. There was nothing for him here. Not much for him anywhere, really. Around four he settled at a café and wrote a postcard to Emily. After dithering for nearly half an hour, he wrote a postcard to Martin. It took a sheaf of bar-napkin drafts before he had the wording something like he wanted. 

“Dear Martin, I hope you don’t mind my sending you a note—I don’t blame you for not answering my text. I am extremely sorry that I hurt you. It was never my intention. Tell me if you need anything. Your friend, Douglas.”

Immediately he finished it, he found a post box and dropped both cards in. Though God knew if Martin would live long enough to receive the thing. And even if he did, there was no chance in hell that Martin would contact him again.

The next day, he read his book at the waterfront until the afternoon, when it was time to fly back. The flight was dull. Carolyn brought the coffee and cheese tray promptly enough. She didn’t say much to him. He wondered if she were angry at him, though he couldn’t think why she would be. He couldn’t be arsed to care.

He managed to avoid greeting the lovebirds this time, too. Some small success there. Carolyn swept them off Gerti as quickly as he’d ever seen. Two flights’ worth of kissing and cooing would be enough for him, as well.

He brought the paperwork to his desk and considered working on it. Oh, well, what the hell. MJN would have to tie up all its paperwork as well as its finances. Besides, there was nothing better for him to do. It would keep him occupied for a while.

Four hours later, it was all over. He’d done every scrap of paperwork he could lay his hands on. He’d even gone back three months and double-checked Martin’s paperwork on a whim—though, of course, it was perfect. Everything was complete and correct. All the flight plans, all the logs, all the passenger and cargo manifests, all the maintenance and training records, all the licenses. He made extra copies of paperwork that Carolyn would need for the sale and left them on her desk, with detailed notes about what she’d need each packet for.

Even his log book was up to date—not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be flying again. Another chapter in his life closed. God knows what dreariness the next one would bring.

He took a sheet of company stationery and wrote a note to Carolyn. “MJN has been an exciting ride, hasn’t it?—sometimes, a little too much so. Wishing you all the best as you schuss your way through Switzerland. Please give my regards to Arthur—sorry he couldn’t make that last flight.” He’d be damned if he’d write so much as a line to Herc.

He laid the letter on her desk and put his logbook and personal things into his briefcase. He locked up, then pushed his keys to the portakabin and the aeroplane through the letter slot in the side of the hut.

Well. That was that.

It was ten o’clock. He didn’t want to go back to his condo just to defrost something and eat alone. He drove to the outskirts of Reading and had a bite at a Greek place that was open late. He flirted perfunctorily with Marina, the owner’s lovely daughter. She always waited on him, no matter what section he sat in.

He tried to finish his novel over his meal, but he couldn’t concentrate. He’d have to start looking for some sort of a job. And he’d do well to start prepping the condo for sale. He wasn’t likely to find a position that would let him keep it. He’d have to take a look through his financial records, too.

Getting older was ghastly. Though he supposed it was better than the alternative.

He dawdled as much as he could over the food. The family finally swept him out the door at midnight. A fog had sprung up and it was drizzling. The fog-haloed streetlights were eerie as he drove, passing from darkness into greasy unnatural light, then to darkness again in the silent, empty world of night. He felt there was some sort of meaning in that, but he couldn't figure out what it was.


	12. Chapter 12

Douglas rolled over and groaned, pulling the pillow over his head. What was that racket? He’d finally fallen asleep around three, and the clock read 6:14. Maybe a neighbor had gotten tossed out of the house and was trying to get the missus to let him back in, pounding on the door, ringing the doorbell like it was going to fall off.

No, the doorbell—it had to be his. He dragged the bedclothes off his head. Yes, the knocking was coming from downstairs, at his front door. Damn. What was happening now?

He dragged himself out of the bed and went downstairs. He heard the mobile ring on his nightstand when he was halfway down.

He pulled open the door to see a young woman in a dark hoodie, blonde hair spilling out around a pale face, her mobile in one hand and her other hand still raised to knock. What was a woman doing pounding at his door at this time of the morning?

“Er, may I help you?”

She pulled her hood back and looked closely at him. “I’m looking for Douglas Richardson. I—oh, I hope I’ve got the right house.”

She looked familiar. A one-night stand who’d tracked him down with a pregnancy crisis? It couldn’t be. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with anyone. Pitiful, really.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Caitlin, Martin’s sister—we met nearly a year ago, do you remember?”

Oh, God. Was Martin gone? He felt like he’d been punched in the gut, all the air gone out of him.

“Yes,” he finally managed.

“Mum sent me to get you. Martin wants to apologize. Well, Mum told him he had to apologize.”

 _Mum told him he had to apologize._ It clicked into place after a few seconds. “Ah. I see.” _But thank God he’s still here, and with his family. That’s a mercy._

Her face fell. “Look,” she said, “I said that wrong. I don’t know what they said, it’s all too much of a shock. But will you come over, please? It’s just I’m not supposed to come back without you.”

God, he had to go with her, then. “Oh, all right,” he said, more nastily than he intended. _Take a breath and be polite, Richardson._ “Won’t you sit down? I’ll just be a moment dressing. Do you want a coffee? I can make a pot.”

“No. I just want to get back.”

“Of course. I’ll be right down.” He felt her watch him up the stairs. He heard her pacing and sighing as he dressed in the things he’d laid out on the chair before he’d gone to bed.

Douglas brushed his teeth and combed his hair. Apologize, indeed. No matter what his mum had said to him, Martin was surely even more furious than when he’d texted. He’d probably only agreed to “apologize” so he’d have the opportunity to shout, if he had the breath for it. Well, I can take it. Have to, don’t I?

He put his wallet, mobile, and keys into his pockets and headed downstairs. Caitlin was sitting on the sofa, biting her nails and staring distractedly at nothing. Poor thing. And poor Wendy. It must be terrible for them all, especially learning that way, and at the end.

He walked up, but she didn’t seem to register his presence. He asked gently, “are you ready?” She gasped and jumped.

“I didn’t hear you come down.” She sprung up from the sofa like she’d been caught out at something and nodded jerkily at him. “You were quick, that’s good. Let’s go.”

“Right this way.”

She waited as he locked up, then she jogged to her car, parked right behind his in the drive. She yanked the driver’s door open and looked quizzically at him. “What are you doing?”

He paused, his hand on the door handle of the Lexus. “I’m going to follow you in my car, of course.”

“No, you’re coming with me. I promised.”

“Surely it doesn’t matter how many cars we take—“

“No, I promised mum that I’d bring you in my car, so you can please get in.”

“Didn’t want me veering off instead of going with you, eh?”

She stared bloody murder at him until he let go of the door handle.

He sighed and beeped the Lexus locked again. Her small family car was littered with the detritus of a middle-class suburban life. There were two car seats in the backseat, toys and electronic gadgets tucked between them, fast-food wrappings thrown into the foot wells. He squeezed himself into the passenger seat, trying not to step on the empty plastic water bottles.

The day was starting well. He’d have the pleasure of a ride to the other side of town, driven by a distraught woman he barely knew. Where he’d meet Martin’s mum again, who would be even more distraught. So that Martin could “apologize” to him. Christ. He was sorry he’d left Pantelleria. He was sorry he hadn’t slept on the broken-down couch at the office last night so that Caitlin couldn’t have found him.

No good deed goes unpunished—that saying was certainly true. In another moment he’d be feeling sorry for himself. Though calling Wendy had been the right thing to do. And he’d make the same decision again.

“So,” Caitlin spat once they’d pulled onto the street. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel and her jaw was jutting out, the way Martin’s did when he was trying to master his temper. “How long have you known?”

“He forbade me to tell anyone.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. I asked you how long you’ve known.”

“Since early March.”

She breathed in and out through her nose, trying to keep her anger in check. “I can’t understand either of you.”

“Look, Martin made me swear not to say anything—”

“Yes, you said. But it’s rotten, it’s really rotten of the two of you.”

“I know. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t paying attention to her driving. She was stomping on the gas, then letting up, so that the car jerked along.

“You’re sorry. Thank you, that makes everything better.” He looked down at his hands. She was right. He’d known it was wrong, he shouldn’t have agreed. Damn agreeing, he should just have gone ahead and told Wendy. He should have told her ages ago. But the fear of not seeing Martin any more had gotten the better of him. Desperate to be with Martin Crieff. Ridiculous. But there was no denying it.

“So what made you finally decide to call mum?”

He stared out the side window. The sky was clear, the trees were in full leaf, and the air was warm with a slight breeze. It was going to be a near-perfect day. “I didn’t want him to die alone.”

“What d’you mean, ‘die alone?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, he wasn’t going to tell you, was he?”

She shook her head and stomped on the gas again. “Just tell me what was in it for you,” she asked, enunciating distinctly in her anger. “Keeping Martin from us.”

“Keeping Martin from you? Is that what he told you?”

They were coming up to a stop sign. She wasn’t slowing. He braced himself reflexively.

“Not in so many words, but that’s what’s been going on, hasn’t it? I mean, there’s no reason for Martin to hide from us, not tell us that he’s dying.”

She hit the brakes hard on the last word, and he flew forward into the seat belt as it locked to hold him. “We’re not specially close, but there’s no reason to do that, to hurt us like that. Specially mum.” She stomped on the gas and they lurched forward. Thank God it was early in the morning, when there were almost no cars around. She was driving no better than a drunk. He’d been hoping a police car would pull out of somewhere and stop her.

He pressed himself back into the seat as far as he could, and the belt finally loosened. They were only a few blocks from Martin’s now. He’d be out of the frying pan and into the fire, trying to talk with Wendy. “It was Martin’s decision. Not mine.”

“Stop saying that! I don’t care whose decision it was! It was wrong!”

“I know.”

They were at Mercy House. She screeched to a stop and jerked the parking brake up. He put his hand down to undo his seat belt and she clamped her hand over his, then leaned over until her face was an inch from his. “Stop prevaricating and tell me the truth. Why didn’t you tell us?”

Her eyes were just like Martin’s, pale and strange, though dark with fury. He couldn’t meet her eyes, had to look away. Christ.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t let he see him.”

“What in bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

He toed a water bottle and watched them all jostle. “What am I to him? There’s no reason for you to let me see him. I’m not his family. I’m not his partner. I’m barely his friend. But I couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. I was desperate to be with him, and I was afraid you wouldn’t let me.”

If looks could kill, Caitlin would have incinerated him by now. He closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of the seat. Was this what love was? For three marriages, he’d thought it was having a pleasant home and good conversation, sexual compatibility and shared interests. But no. It was a desperate, roaring, clawing need to be with the loved one because you knew them enough to see their brokenness, and it gave you hope that the brokenness you hid so carefully beneath your own skin was not as inhuman as you feared.

If this was love, he could have done without it. But it had caught him. In the person of skinny, driven, proud, fussy, dying Martin Crieff.

After an eternity, Caitlin leaned back and released his hand, then pressed the release button on his seat belt. “We’ll go inside now.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Look who’s here, Mum, Martin.” Caitlin preceded him into Martin’s bedroom. He was surprised she hadn’t insisted he go up the stairs first, just so that she could drive him before her. He was taken aback by the cloud of model airplanes hanging above the foot of Martin’s bed. There must have been twenty of them, from two-seaters to jetliners. Wendy and Caitlin must have dug them out of some corner at Wendy’s house, though it seemed an odd thing to stop for when rushing to a dying man's bedside.

“Douglas, it’s lovely to see you again.” Wendy stood to greet him from her perch on the edge of Martin’s bed. He stopped gaping at the models and went over to her. She looked thinner and more stooped than he remembered—though he’d only seen her once, and nearly a year ago, when she’d had that heart scare. They exchanged polite kisses.

“I know you and Martin haven’t seen each other in days, so we’ll just let you catch up. You remember what we talked about, don’t you, Martin?”

Martin nodded, looking sulky. 

“That’s good, dear. I’ll leave you two alone, then.” Wendy kissed Martin’s forehead and went out, taking Caitlin’s arm and pulling the door to behind her.

They’d taken Martin off the oxygen concentrator and put him on a tank. Not before he needed it. His breathing sounded like one giant rusted metal roadway plate being dragged over another. The tumors must have grown against his airways again, just in the last couple of days. And Martin was running out of strength—his throat and shoulders, and undoubtedly his back muscles, had to help every time he took a breath. His chest and stomach muscles weren’t enough to keep him breathing anymore.

Martin's hair was filthy, and he had three days’ growth of beard—he’d obviously refused to let anyone clean him up—and an avoidable sore on his nose from the oxygen mask. His skin was grey and translucent. His eyes were dull, with no life left in them. He looked abandoned, like he had no one to love or care for him. Which was ridiculous. His mum and sister were here for him. Though God alone knew where that useless brother of his was. If he ever saw Simon again, he’d lay him out flat for being too much of a coward to see Martin. It was good having something to look forward to, even if it was only feeling Simon’s nose crunch beneath his fist.

But that wasn’t worth thinking about right now. Martin was important now. Nothing else. The three steps to the bed seemed a mile. No matter what promise Martin had made to his mum, he’d be rightly furious that Douglas had betrayed his confidence, on top of his earlier anger that Douglas was too controlling. Though Martin was so shattered that Douglas wasn't really sure anymore that he could read his expression. He suspected he'd mistaken exhaustion for his usual sulkiness. There was no way to tell if illness covered his fury, or if he was simply too worn out to bother.

He perched in Wendy’s spot. It was still warm, and the warmth felt comforting. Martin stared at him for a moment, then closed his eyes and took a labored breath. He wanted to hold Martin, to apologize, to kiss his hair, his face, his hands. Martin’s eyes stayed closed as he took another breath. Another.

His heart clenched as he realized that Martin wasn’t going to speak to him, not even to say how he hated him. Martin didn’t even want to look at him. God. Well, what did he expect after calling Wendy when Martin had wanted to “spare” her? Martin still had his pride—it was very nearly the only thing he had. Martin didn’t have to forgive him.

He’d stay here a while, though. They were supposed to be having a heart-to-heart. He’d help make a show of it so that Wendy wouldn’t be upset, or disappointed in Martin. It was the least he could do. Though listening to Martin try to breathe might drive him mad. So little time. So many mistakes he couldn’t undo.


	14. Chapter 14

He pushed himself off the bed to look at the models. Each hung from a clear plastic thread anchored to the ceiling with adhesive putty. They were beautifully done, with more detail than he would have thought possible. Each had a neatly handwritten tag on its belly, painted the same color as the body of the plane, reading “Martin & George,” with a date: 6 July 1985; 29 September 1987; 3 February 1990. Martin and his father had done these together.

“Douglas.” Martin’s voice was low and raw, but he didn't sound congested. Wendy must have convinced him to let the respiratory therapist intubate him, draw the fluid from his lungs. Thank God he was listening to his mum. Of course, there'd never been any reason for Martin to listen to Douglas. He just wished he would have done.

“Oh, hello. Decided to speak to me after all?" Might as well get it over with and leave Martin in peace. "I'm not going to apologize for telling your mum—God knows you don't deserve to die alone, as I presume you were planning."

Martin stared at him a moment, then said, "Catlin showed me the records you sent her."

"She did, did she?" he stepped to the little window set high in the wall. The sky still had the clear, pale look of early morning. He loved that pure sky. But what did Martin's medical records have to do with anything? Was he angry about that, too? Too late to do anything about it now. Not that he would have done anything differently.

"Why'd you do that?"

"It only makes sense to keep copies of medical records. They go missing all the time."

"She showed me your notes. You did research. Called specialists."

"Ah." He hadn't mean to send all that. Damned phone. He should have waited until he got back to his laptop.

"Why'd you do all that?"

A swallow swooped past the window, a bright beetle struggling in its beak. Why, indeed? It hadn't done Martin any good, stubborn idiot that he was. It wasn't doing Douglas Richardson any good either, was it? Not when Martin was going to shout at him about it. 

"Had lots of time on my hands while you were sleeping, didn't I?"

"No, you weren't killing time. You identified specialists and phoned them and took notes."

"Good Lord, Martin!" He was fed up with Martin's pride, his stubbornness, his insistence on doing exactly the wrong thing, on his giving up on himself. He whirled around and couldn't keep himself from stalking over to the bed, looming over Martin. "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to apologize for trying to keep you alive?" Martin's eyes welled up. What on earth was he upset about? Martin had always gotten his way; nothing Douglas had suggested or done had ever made any difference to him. Martin had nothing to be upset about on that count.

Martin dropped his eyes. "Catlin s-says it shows how m-much you care for me."

God, the boy was stuttering now. "Martin, we've been over this. You agreed that we're friends, and you agreed that I could help you. I was helping you. I could have been helping you more if you weren't such an idiot." Why on earth did they have to have this conversation again, when Martin was nearly at his last?

"Catlin says it means you... well, you wouldn't do all that unless you cared... she says—she says you love me."

"Oh." He felt caught out. "She does, does she." He dropped onto the edge of the bed. Swift as thought, Martin turned and curled his legs around him, his hipbone jutting painfully into his haunch. _So thin. Almost nothing left of him._ He couldn't look at Martin. Not right now. He had to think of some reply. He looked reflexively at his nails. They were getting too long for his taste. _I had no idea you were such a pretty pilot._ How long ago had Martin said that to him? It was their first Birling day, wasn't it?

"Douglas." With effort, Martin propped himself up on his elbow. Douglas was glad to lose the sharp pain of Martin's hipbone when he shifted, but Martin hadn't managed to sit up in nearly a week, and he was already trembling with the effort. Martin's hand landed on his shoulder and gripped like iron, trying to steady himself.

_Martin shouldn't be spending his strength on sitting up._ Douglas instinctively wrapped his arms around Martin and all but pulled him into his lap. His stomach lurched—good God, Martin hated being touched without warning, without permission, and he'd just manhandled him. The more he tried to do for Martin, the more he did wrong by him. "Martin, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Douglas, shut up." Douglas closed his mouth with a nearly audible snap. Martin's grip relaxed and he let himself sag against Douglas, looping his arm around Douglas's neck and nestling his head against Douglas's shoulder. God, the boy was just skin and bones. He'd never realized that the saying could be realistic. Martin had no flesh, no fat left; his skin felt loose, too big on him. He could feel the terrible effort of breathing as Martin leaned against him, what was left of his muscles reflexively struggling to keep life in the body. But if Martin didn't mind his holding him, that was all right. He'd hold Martin as long as the boy allowed him. He raised his chin just the tiniest fraction, just to lift his lips out of Martin's dirty hair. 

"Do you? Do you l-love me?" Douglas opened his mouth to answer as Martin ran on. "No. Sorry. Stupid of me." Martin was trying to pull away. Douglas held him tighter, pressed a kiss to his head. 

"Yes, Martin. I don't know how it happened, but I love you."

"Oh, God." Martin's voice broke on the words, and he lifted Martin's chin with a cautious finger. Martin's face was screwed up and tears were streaming down his cheeks. Martin had learned to cry without sobbing, to save his breath, almost two weeks ago. Douglas reached over and took a handful tissues from the bedside box. Martin snatched them and wiped his cheeks roughly, like an angry child. One thing he could always count on was Martin's petulance. 

"I'm sorry." He realized that he was smiling fondly at the boy. 

"What for?" Martin was trying to wipe his nose through the oxygen mask. _Berk._ "Oh. Sorry for yourself, I'm sure." 

"No, Martin, I am _not_ sorry for myself. Though I'm sorry for a great many things. I'm sorry I made you feel I was bullying you. I'm sorry I went against your wishes, though I'm not sorry I called your mum. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm especially that sorry that you're dying and we won't have the time together we could. If you wanted to be with me."

Martin had wiped his nose and gotten the mask back on. Just going without the oxygen for a few moments and he was gasping like he'd run a mile. Despite the weeks he'd spent at Martin's side, the illness still nauseated him. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. He'd have time enough later to give in to his emotions. This was neither the time nor the place.

"God, Douglas. You mean it, don't you?" 

Martin was staring at him with the widest eyes he'd seen outside of a cartoon. "God help me, I do. Here, give me your tissues. I can pitch them into the bin."

"Can't, it's too far from here."

"Watch me."

"Missed."

"Doesn't matter. I'll pick them up in a bit."

"But why? Why do you—care for me? If-if it's true."

"It is true. I love you because, Martin Crieff, because after five years, I _know_ you. You are the most determined man I've ever met. You worked for years to get what you wanted, and once you got it you worked for years to keep it. You haven't let anything stop you. Until this. Which can't be stopped. Because you are a perfectionist and insist on doing the right thing—usually—which I appreciate, even though it is absolutely contrary to _my_ nature. Because you are a good pilot, after your fashion."

Martin's eyes had been getting even wider as he spoke, but he laughed at the last statement—for a moment, until his cough overtook him. Douglas held him for a moment, then helped him lie back against the pillows. It was better for Martin to be sitting up as straight as possible, rather than snuggled in Douglas's arms. It took nearly four minutes for the coughing to run down and for Martin to get his breathing under control. No, he had to stop thinking about Martin's cough and breathlessness, how his every breath was a losing battle. It made him heartsick, and it did Martin no good. 

"You had me until that last part." Martin leaned forward to punch him on the arm. Ridiculous thing for Martin to do. Waste of his strength.

"No, Martin, listen to me. I love you." The admission felt strange on his tongue, but he wanted so much to make Martin understand. "It's different than with my wives."

"'No, no, I've got it. You're pitying me." Martin's mouth twisted. "I was slow catching on, but I've got it now. You're trying to make me feel good while you—while you can. God knows why. Well, you can give it up. You've got three ex-wives and a small country's worth of ex-girlfriends. You're not interested in men. You're certainly not interested in _me_. I'm not stupid."

God, Martin was maddening. Some things never changed. But their discussion was going nowhere. And it hurt him to look at Martin. So thin, and so pale that his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks looked bruised. Talking for this long was wearing Martin out, and he was having trouble focusing, keeping his eyes open. His fever was coming back up, too; a flush was creeping up his throat, and he was starting to shiver. Poor bastard. This was not how he'd wanted his last conversation with Martin to go, but nothing he did went right any more. Best give it up and leave the man in peace. He put on his best smile and took Martin's hand. Permission be damned. This was going to be his last opportunity to touch Martin, and he was going to take it. 

"Well, it's not worth arguing about, is it?" He was rubbing the back of Martin's hand with his thumb. _Martin doesn't want you mooning over him. Get a hold of yourself. Martin doesn't even believe you care for him._ He stood up, and immediately felt awkward. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. "You look like you're getting tired. Why don't you rest a little bit? I'm sure your mum and sister will be back up soon."

This was it. He wouldn't see Martin again. He felt tears prickling at the backs of his eyes. _Don't make a scene, Richardson._ "As a matter of fact, I'm sure they've finished their tea by now. I'll send them up, all right? Just close your eyes and have a rest, and they'll be right here when you wake up." He'd never felt more exposed. He started edging—God, Douglas Richardson was actually _edging_ —toward the door.

Martin was staring at him. What could he possibly be doing wrong now? Two more steps and he'd be through the door, and it would be over. Martin would be rid of him, and he could work on coming to grips with the fact that Martin had prodded him to confess his feelings but didn't believe him, and certainly didn't want him in return. _Look how the mighty have fallen_.

And there were Wendy and Caitlin coming up the stairs, spoiling his exit. Just perfect. 

 


	15. Chapter 15

“Douglas!” Martin rocketed into a sitting position and stared hard at him, as keenly as he’d ever examined a flight manual.

God, he couldn’t even escape the situation. Martin had rejected him, the least he could do was let him leave. _No, be reasonable. He’s thirsty, wants to brush his teeth, something. He’s too weak to do anything for himself. I don’t know how he has the strength to sit up like that._ Douglas arranged his face into as much of a smile as he could manage.

“What do you need?”

“Don’t go.”

“I hear your mum and Caitlin on the stairs—”

Martin heaved in a breath. “If you _do_ care for me”—the _do_ was heavily larded with suspicion—“don’t leave me.” Martin’s jaw wobbled. He fell back against the pillows and turned his face to the wall. “God, what am I saying? Just go.”

One step in either direction would decide the matter. He could take go toward Martin and stay with him for as long as he had—another day or two at the most. Or he could walk away and lick his own wounded pride. Caitlin and Wendy had turned onto the next flight of stairs. They were here for Martin. They were his family. They knew him best, knew him intimately, knew his entire life. Douglas Richardson was an interloper. Not family. Barely a friend.

Martin hadn’t turned his head, hadn’t moved; he was still facing the wall. Wendy and Caitlin were turning onto the last flight of stairs. He heard Martin click the morphine pump over the terrible sound of his breathing.

Two steps brought him to Martin’s bedside. He sat and took Martin's free hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it so very, very gently. Martin turned his head minutely to look at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye.

“Martin, I don’t want to leave you. Please don't make me leave you.”

Martin launched himself into Douglas's arms, flinging his arms around Douglas’s neck.

Douglas closed his arms around him and held him close, supporting him, protecting him. Protecting him from what, he didn’t know. He couldn’t protect Martin from anything. The man was dying. He couldn’t protect Martin from that. He could practically count Martin’s ribs as they pressed against his chest. Martin had kept his face turned away, so that his oxygen mask and tube didn’t tangle or crush against him. He wondered if it just turned out that way, or if Martin had planned a safety procedure for just such an eventuality. He couldn’t help smiling at the thought. He pressed his lips to the back of Martin’s neck and nuzzled his hair. He heard a soft knock on the open door as Wendy and Caitlin came in, Wendy offering a quiet “hoo, hoo” to announce their entry. Good Lord, what would they think? Would Wendy disapprove? He certainly didn’t want to offend her, but nothing would make him let Martin go, not now that he had him. Only Martin could make him leave.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Wendy said. “That’s just what Martin needed.”

He spared a glance over at them. Wendy was settling herself in the sleeping chair. She looked tired but relieved. Caitlin, who hadn’t gotten any farther than leaning on the door jamb, was rubbing her face. Martin lifted his head and looked at them.

“I’m right here, mum,” Martin said, as petulant as ever. He’d kept his hold on Douglas, and he’d kept his cheek pressed against Douglas’s as he spoke. Martin had clung to him, was pressed against him, wasn’t letting go—it made his heart skip a beat. “I can hear you, you know.”

“All right, then—that’s just what _you_ needed, dear. We know how much you care for Douglas. And he’s so very good to you, he loves you so much. Honestly, I don’t know why you boys are so prickly about your relationship. It’s a good thing Caitlin was awake enough to go get you and bring you back, Douglas. I almost didn’t let her drive over, she's that tired.”

Douglas smiled and kissed Martin’s temple. He felt Martin’s skin heat as he blushed—though it was no doubt helped by the fever they could never get under control. Martin grunted, mollified, and rested his head on Douglas’s shoulder again. Douglas tried to focus on the giddy pleasure of holding Martin, of knowing Martin wanted him to stay. He didn’t want to think about how little time they'd have together, truly together. Martin’s skin felt loose and unattached, and he had only to concentrate if he wanted to count the ribs and vertebrae that pressed against his chest and arms. Martin lost his strength and started sagging against him in another moment, his arms to weak to stay looped around his shoulders.

“Why don’t you lie back and rest?” Martin sighed and gave a tiny nod. Douglas supported him as he lay back, then arranged the pillows and bedclothes for him. Martin’s eyes never left his face, his fingers toying nervously with the bedding and the tubing for his oxygen mask. He took Martin’s hand, lacing their fingers together and tracing the bones in Martin’s hand with his thumb. He didn’t want to let go. He’d be losing Martin so quickly. Martin blinked at him, already starting to drowse.

“Douglas,” Wendy said, “you know you can get comfortable with Martin on the bed. We don’t mind, honestly, dear. Go on," she said, making a shooing gesture. "Don't let us put you off cuddling up together."

He lifted up his head and laughed. It felt so good, so good, to think about lying next to Martin, holding him. It was the best he'd felt in weeks—months, maybe. He hadn't felt happy in so long. And now Martin was frowning at him, his brows drawn together, even though he was fighting hard to stay awake. He toed off his shoes.

"Budge over, then. No, here, let's do it this way. You want to be near your mum and sister, not jammed up against the wall." He helped Martin shift over to the outside edge of bed. He tried not to think about how easy it was to lift and move Martin. He clambered between Martin and the wall as elegantly as possible—definitely not as elegantly as he would have liked—and gathered Martin gently to himself. Martin was hot and drenched with sweat. His eyes were glassy with fever and exhaustion, and he looked sleepily back and forth between Douglas and his mum, trying to focus. 

"Why don't you close your eyes and rest for a while? Would you like that?" Martin nodded, his chin sagging on his chest. "We'll all be here. We're not going anywhere." Martin gripped the hem of Douglas's jumper like it was a rope thrown to a drowning man, and his eyes fluttered closed. Douglas kissed the top of his head and held him close. _Thank God. I've got you at last. Thank God. Thank God._ He closed his eyes against the tears that had started up, and bent to kiss Martin's head again.

Caitlin slipped out, then came back with another chair. She put it next to the bureau, then propped herself against the bureau and closed her eyes. Wendy had already nodded off. Martin shifted in his sleep, nuzzling against him. Douglas kissed Martin again and made sure the bedclothes were tucked in around him, then he closed his eyes as well.


End file.
